


an aged love sonnet

by LetMeLeadForever



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fix-It, Letters, M/M, Slow Burn, bill finds letters from his future self that's it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-09 01:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13470930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeLeadForever/pseuds/LetMeLeadForever
Summary: It was only then, while mourning the irrevocable loss of freedom that summer air brought, that Bill’s eyes fell on the letter. His mother must have dropped it in his room earlier. Bill’s eyes narrowed as he touched his fingers to the envelope, a dark blue border marred with splotches of red fading to a white block, where text has been scribbled.Bill Denbrough.His brow crumbled as he held the letter in his hands, tilting it this way and that way as if it would suddenly reveal something to him. He wasn’t sure what, but the stony feeling in his chest was back, a heavy pull that spoke of unfamiliar familiarity. The scrawl on the front, black ink that wrote in towering letters that were just a little too close to each other, was his own. He saw it almost every day, there was no mistaking it. Perhaps it was a little more refined, no more overlapping letters or ink blots where he pressed too hard in his excitement, but it was his own.





	1. a letter for all seasons

The letter sat abandoned on his desk. Bill’s room had always been half-neat; it wasn’t the pleasant tidiness of Eddie’s room, with a bookshelf free from taunting dust, his toys placed neatly into ordered rows under the watchful eyes of his mother, but it wasn’t the scattered mess of Richie’s room where one had to be careful of falling over stray debris with each step. It only gave his mother a mild headache when she looked at it. Edging to the side of the letter, a pencil rolled loose and tapped against the envelope, once, twice, before finally colliding back with the other pencils and pushing three from the desk.

Clatter of pencils hitting against the ground awoke Bill from his dreary morning routine, the last ebbing sunlight of summer mocking him as it slid through his window. Laziness ached his bones, the promise of the first day of school make him feel sluggish as he tread toward his desk, gathering the pencils in his hand.

There was a half-drawn turtle buried in the sketchbook hidden under a stack of books, one he knew he wouldn’t finish now summer had ended. School brought a delay to his favourite pastimes. He knew soon enough that he’d have no energy to scribble down pictures, despite any promises he’d make to himself. He relaxed his hand around the pencils, only just realising that he had been gripping them hard enough to leave faint marks on his fingers.

Dropping the pens haphazardly onto the desk, Bill took a moment to take in the half-mess. Paper that he couldn’t quite part with laid scrunched up in a pile, pencils crisscrossed with pens, paint brushes had gone stiff from their lack of use. He touched the tip of his finger to the bristles, and felt their refusal to yield, a tight clenching in his chest making him frown and drop his hands away. He wouldn’t be using any of this until next summer, at least not in the way he wanted, where he could hunch over his desk for hours and carve pictures from blankness with the tip of his pencils.

It was only then, while mourning the irrevocable loss of freedom that summer air brought, that Bill’s eyes fell on the letter. His mother must have dropped it in his room earlier. Once, he would have been certain that his mother’s familiar footsteps would have roused him from sleep, but she had grown to be quieter than a ghost, a soft snowfall of steps as she moved around the house. She could be waiting outside his door, and he was certain he wouldn’t notice. Even her breathing seemed less real.

Bill’s eyes narrowed as he touched his fingers to the envelope, a dark blue border marred with splotches of red fading to a white block, where text has been scribbled. _Bill Denbrough._ Letters had been sent to him before, birthday cards from relatives with money slipped inside, the dentist telling him it was time for a check-up, a pay-by month comic subscription, but they had all addressed him formally as William. Bill felt too familiar when it was written in ink.

His brow crumbled as he held the letter in his hands, tilting it this way and that way as if it would suddenly reveal something to him. He wasn’t sure what, but the stony feeling in his chest was back, a heavy pull that spoke of unfamiliar familiarity. The scrawl on the front, black ink that wrote in towering letters that were just a little too close to each other, was his own. He saw it almost every day, there was no mistaking it. Perhaps it was a little more refined, no more overlapping letters or ink blots where he pressed too hard in his excitement, but it was his own.

A gasp left him, and the letter was dropped back to the desk with a startled quickness. He stared at it, and it stared back. He willed the letters change, as if it would suddenly reveal the messy handwriting of a favoured uncle who merely wanted to know how he was, but it refused to disappear - it was no trick of the mind, brought on by the early morning light and his own tiredness, but rather dreaded reality.

His gaze dropped to his hands after a heated debate, as if the offending letter would run away from him if it was not watched, and he checked carefully for any cuts. If the letter was sentient, it would try to hurt him. Hands decidedly unharmed, he lifted his trembling fingers to his chest to feel the gentle thump of his heart, breath catching in his throat as he returned to staring at the letter.

Nothing had changed.

“Bill!” A squawk left the young boy as he stumbled backwards from the desk, almost tripping over himself in his fright, before catching himself at the last minute. “Your friends are waiting outside, the scruffy one is being so loud, can’t you hurry up? Oh, Bill, you’re barely dressed, button up your shirt while I pack your bag.”

His mother’s voice was touched with the facade of care, the echo of love - she wasn’t the only ghost in the house. She hesitated in the doorway, her eyes looking just past Bill, and he realised too late that she wanted him to turn her away. He remained silent, and she stepped into the room without ever glancing at him.

Turning from his desk, he buttoned his shirt quickly, knowing that Richie would march off if he was kept waiting too long. Or start throwing pebbles at his window. His mother probably wouldn’t even flinch, not even if one smashed the glass right open. “Mom?” he spoke, the waver in his voice barely noticeable.

She didn’t answer. Her hands straightened out pencils, checked pens to make sure they worked, and filled Bill’s bag up with two new writing pads. In their dual silence, he smoothed his hands along his shirt until they caught on a wrinkle, tugging at the bottom of his shirt to see if he could straighten it out, before he gave up. “Mom, do you see the letter on my desk?” He turned to face her back, and she still didn’t answer. Nails, bitten down to the root with their jagged edges, lifted the letter for a second and placed it into his bag. The matter was over.

Weighted silence prevailed as they descended the stairs, his mother’s eyes trained on the wall ahead, while Bill counted the steps as they dashed from under his feet. His mom stood still at the bottom of the stairs, and he waited for her to lift her hand and ruffle his hair, wish him a goodbye or a good luck at school, but she stayed lost in her own thoughts. He ran past her after lingering, the front door open and shutting, and Bill felt better in the bathing sunlight.

Blotting out the sunlight were two figures, one swaying lightly and humming, the other stood in a manner that seemed fastidious.

“What took you so long to get out here, Billy boy? Were you tugging off a quick one?” Eyebrows wiggled from behind the frames of bottle-cap glasses, one of the sides tilted a little further down his face because of the tape that held them together. He seemed to instinctively sync pushing them up his nose with Stan’s half-interested eye roll. The summer had stolen the roundness of Richie’s moon-like features, his cheeks growing from their usual red to a pink, and Bill noted with gentle surety that he would grow into someone handsome.

“No dirty jokes until I’m actually awake,” Stan mumbled, his voice ancient as it croaked from his throat. His eyes were narrowed slits as they slid to throw a glare at Richie, who politely ignored it and dug his elbow into Bill’s side. It prompted the leader into walking, and the two flanked him, following the rhythm he had set.

“If that was a rule, I’d never be able to make a dirty joke.”

“Good.” Writhing look was fixed on Richie, but it wasn’t used sparingly enough to summon any fear from the other. Laughter left Richie’s lips in howling ringlets as he met Stan’s gaze, and he marched in front of the two boys, turning to face them so he was walking backwards.

“Yowza, Stanley! You got off a good one this early in the morning! You tryna beat me for the most chucks this year?” There was something pleasantly soothing in the familiarity of Richie. His mind chose to focus on the ridiculous absurdity that he was, a cartoon character sketched by some drunk fool, rather than the strange letter that pulsed in his bag, begging for attention that Bill refused to give. Everything about Richie seemed out of tune, a face that was almost handsome, a joke that was almost funny, eyes that were almost happy. Bill supposed he loved him for all his almosts.

His eyes found Stan’s, and twin smiles shone over their faces. The scar had faded into a handful of white lines that kissed his cheek, and Bill wondered how the skin would feel beneath his touch - puckered, the raised skin rough while his cheek was still smooth, and his fingers curled into a fist as if he needed physical measures to stop himself. Richie had fallen back in line with them, head cocked to the side as he watched the Derry residents attend to their lawn, and busy themselves in kitchens, and kindly ignore the shared look of two boys. It felt almost an invasion to witness the glance as a third party, to interrupt it with a joke, to exist while it happened.

It wasn’t something that someone could just see, it was a moment that only two could live in.

“I thought you were supposed to make an effort for your first day back, Bill. You’re looking pretty comfortable to me.” Moment faded into little more than an exchange of a look, lasting nothing more than a few seconds, and Richie exhaled softly, and tilted back to the pair. Bill’s eyes traced stories from Stan’s features, but the other boy was reaching out to flick at his plaid shirt, glancing over to Richie. “What do you think, Richie?”

“I duh-duh-don’t want Richie Tozier’s opinion on my cluh-cluh-cluh.” Word tangled on his tongue, brutally clear in his mind and yet refusing to fall. Clothes. Clothes. Clothes. How easy it was for the word to flitter uselessly through his throughts, even while he turned a heated red under his inability.

“Clothes,” Richie finished for him, sympathy raw in his voice. He thought of the embarrassment that shone over adults’ faces when he couldn’t quite grasp a word, unease forcing them to cut him short so they wouldn’t be standing around all day listening to him, and he wondered how long it would be until the losers looked at him with the same pity. “I think Big Bill is looking pretty hot right now, actually. This isn’t just any plaid, Stan, oh no. He’s wearing the winter collection, imported especially from France, to give him this sexy lumberjack look.”

A smile broke across Bill’s red face, and he decided that the losers wouldn’t ever betray him with unfeeling pity.

“You’re right, we don’t want Richie’s opinion on clothes,” Stan decided, smirk curling over his lips as Richie’s mouth fell open, eyes growing wide in exaggerated disbelief.

“How quickly you turn against me, Judas. Ha, Jew-das.”

“Oh, and he wonders how I can so quickly turn away from him. You really are something special, Richie. Too bad I wouldn’t ever kiss you on the cheek.”

Laughter was light and free as it spilled from Bill’s lips, and he felt the immeasurable safety of youth and friendship. Smile, as radiant as the sun as it splashed across the sidewalk in slanted waves, lit Stan’s features into an unearthly glow as his eyes stole glances at Bill’s laughing face. Richie, deciding that moment was meant to be drank in by all three of them rather than carefully shared between two, joined in with the laughter, and consoled his soul that Stan was certainly kiss him on the cheek if he was given the opportunity.

“Two good chucks in one morning, Stan? It just upsets me how easily Bill gives it up, really, I thought he was better than that.” The three boys, two of which glowed with red-faced joy, the other who remained tightly composed bar the sweet grin, stopped together as the school doors blurred into view. It was instinct to eye up the predator before making a move.

Crowds of agitated children were already filing in, chaotic lines muddled by shoulders that clapped too harshly together, and hands pushing at backs. Three pairs of eyes moved from left to right, the doors their first target before the field was scanned with equal vigour. “I duh-don’t see Greta. No Belch, either.”

“Thought I saw Victor Criss, but it just turned out to be a stick with a bleached leaf,” Richie snorted, waiting for the two others to follow with their laughter, but they stood with their stony faces, men casting their eyes upon battlefields where thousands already laid wounded. “Beverly’s smoking by the trashcans. Do we infiltrate, boys?”

Richie lifted a hand to spare a wave toward Beverly, a soldier who had braved the battlefield with Ben by her side, two capable lieutenants that would survive the threats of teenagers together. Bill moved toward them, and the others followed, Beverly quickly snubbing out her cigarette as she watched them approach. Her walk to school had been longer than theirs, kept away in the tiny apartment on the far edge of town, and it had left her shoes covered in faint splodges of yellowing mud, a few stubborn tufts of grass fixed to the stains.

“Got any smokes, Bev?” Eager eyes swept toward the cigarette stub that laid upon the trash heap, grey smoke curling out from it as the flame flickered lightly and died. “I’m dying for one, don’t let me down like this, don’t be so cruel.” Bending over slightly, Richie furiously ran his hands up and down his legs, drawing the attention of the others hunched around the trashcans. A pair of girls exchanged looks of confused disgust, before walking away from the scene, and Ben shot them a sympathetic smile.

“That was my last one, Rich. Maybe if you had gotten to school earlier, I’d have something left over for you, huh?” Hand reached out, there was a brief moment where Ben thought she was going to tangle her fingers in the boy’s hair, but she flicked at his forehead. A flesh of red covered her nails, dotted with the neutral whites that had shown where Beverly had picked at the nail polish in nervous thought, and Ben thought they were so pretty that he had to look away for a second to collect himself.

Self-pitying in his own desperation, Richie dropped to his knees in front of Beverly, beginning to bow recklessly. His head almost hit against the trashcans a few times, and Stan would have warned him if he was not so interested in seeing how it played out. “Miss Marsh, you don’t understand! I was fine and ready to be on my way right as the chicken coos, but Mister Denbrough just didn’t want to leave his bedroom. Me thinks the boy had his hand down his pants.”

Splash of red attacked Bill’s cheeks, an infectious predicament as it spread across Stan’s, Ben’s, and Beverly’s cheeks in quick succession. Richie glanced at each of them with muted wonder, shying away from Stan’s hand as it swooped down to pinch at his shoulder. “Richie and I had first period together. I’ll be taking him from your company.” Hand dropped away, Stan escaped at a clip that meant he wouldn’t pause for the other to follow, and Richie said his goodbyes with a small salute, before dashing after the other.

“I think I missed him and stopped missing him in the same breath,” Beverly murmured around a bright laugh, the last remnant of summer tainting her voice into gentle happiness. Though the blushes had disappeared from Bill’s and Beverly’s high cheeks, it seemed ever-present on Ben’s features, rough cheeks bruised with the deepening red. “I guess Mike couldn’t convince his parents to let him out of homeschool, then.”

Three pairs of eyes looked around them, as if searching for their lost member, before settling on each other. The air felt tighter without Mike’s presence. “I guess not,” Bill sighed, with a shake of his head, and his words were final; though Mike was not with them, he was not to be forgotten. As if sensing his thoughts, Ben and Beverly exchanged a quick glance, before nodding. “I’ll suh-see you guys at lunch, I don’t think it’s smart to be late to my first period.”

Words were spoken above the dull ringing of a bell, the ancient chiming that rendered children in inexplicable unease, before Bill turned on his heel and headed toward the doors. Teenagers had already began to clear from their posts, only a dwindling few trudging longingly into the doors, the taste of summer still sweet on their tongues beneath the fateful concoction of stagnant air and mothballs that covered Derry High. The last two watched as Bill climbed the slabs that led toward the doors, hearing the clatter of his footsteps as he paused for a second before marching on.   

It would be untrue to say that Ben and Beverly shared a look after the doors had swung shut and obliterated Bill from their sight. Beverly looked at Ben. Ben looked at Beverly. There was no torrid meeting of their eyes, no shared moment that collapsed the breath from their lungs, no part where Ben blinked and ruined the spell. Ben focused on Beverly’s button nose, shaded with freckles in the morning air, and Beverly looked at the shaggy blonde locks that fell over his forehead. There was some subtle ease that bled into the look, a familiarity that spanned decades rather than the months that had passed in their friendship, and their smiles met when their eyes did not.

“I’m going to hide behind the bleachers to escape homeroom,” Beverly decided, patting at her pocket to reveal a slight ruffle in the material, where a packet of cigarettes was hiding, all except the one she had flicked into the trash. “Don’t tell on me, okay?” she laughed, and her fingers met her hip, resting lightly there.

“I won’t,” Ben promised in a breathless rush of words, the heaving voice of a man who had just ran a marathon; he thought that was how looking at Beverly Marsh made you feel, exhausted and tired and victorious.

“See you at lunch,” Beverly hummed, turning away from Ben to walk to the side of the school, her brave escape easily plotted in her mind. Ben watched her until she was out of sight, and then still kept his eyes focused on the last point of where she had been - he could think of nothing other than the glint from her ankle bracelet.

The rest of the day passed in a disinterested haze, childhood wasted within the walls of classrooms. Introductions took up the first five minutes of every lesson, children spewing out useless facts about their favourite colour and football team, which everyone would forget come Tuesday. The teachers spiralled endlessly about themselves, malevolent masters with an array of children who were forced into quietly and politely listening to their every word. Richie was a different Voice in each classroom, and Stan remained voiceless until the teachers asked him to sit when they realised they would get nothing from him. Beverly wasted away two periods with a cigarette between her fingers, and Ben became his teacher’s favourite in an instant. No one made Bill talk at all.

It was comforting in how mind numbing it was. Silent cheers echoed through hallways when the bell for lunch rang, and not even the sternest of teachers could stop the hordes of children as they spilled from classroom doors.

Carried by the steady flow of hungry children, Bill only began to put effort into walking when he escaped, diverting from the path to brace himself against a locker. Someone muttered something, and another kid threw a glare when his body blocked their path, but there was little time for them to take any grievances up with him; the steady flow had disappeared into the waiting doors of the cafeteria, and Bill was free to walk across the empty space and duck into the boy’s bathroom.

His nose wrinkled at the sight, toilet paper strewn across the floor, a leaky sink covered in some odd greying speckles, a hand dryer knocked clean from the wall. Unruly boys left to their own devices, away from their parents' watchful eyes and the giddy glee that siblings weren't allowed by tattle-tailing. He stole away into a stall that looked half-neat, the same state of his room, locked the door, and dropped the toilet seat so he could perch on it. The letter still burned in his bag. It seemed to have a life of its own, the way he could see the outline steadily pressing against the edge of his bag, the thick side bulging and slithering.

Integration was a symptom of a child’s mind. Everything was new, so everything was odd. Such oddity became a normal part of life, and every thought was accepted as truth, a sight was simply what it was and nothing more. Adults had time to collect themselves in logical ruses, to justify and pile away, and ignore things that didn’t fit with the patterns they knew - he supposed an adult would go crazy if they couldn’t rationalise. He lifted the letter from his bag with careful slowness, switching it over and over in his hands, before placing it in his lap. The letter had to be reasoned with. His fingers traced the familiar font that was sliced into the front, the ink wet enough to stain his digits. It had to be reasoned with, or he’d go crazy.

His friends would be waiting for him in the cafeteria. They would have selected a table, one which they’d spend the rest of the year sat on, and saved a seat for Bill. A bag would be resting in his place. Richie would be sat beside the bag, ready to steal his orange or his chocolate bar, pleading eyes magnified behind his glasses. The day could go ahead as it was planned. The letter could be thrown into the nearest trashcan.

Frown deepening over his lips, his nails pulled apart the envelope, forming jagged edges when it wouldn’t easily give. The paper was a rusted yellow, caressed by neat red lines, and the familiar scrawl danced across the pages in a teasing fashion.

_Dear Bill,_

Beverly would knock her knee against his own to catch his gaze, jerking her head toward Greta Bowie or Belch, who would be doing something terribly hilarious. She’d bury her mouth into her sleeve to hide her squealing giggles, and Bill would bite into whatever Richie hadn’t stole from him, but mirth would warm their eyes until they couldn’t hold back anymore. He read on.

_Dear Bill,_

_You should be reading this around mid-September. Your first day of school, if everything has gone well. You must have noticed some odd things about the letter. How it appeared. Your handwriting. It’ll all be explained soon, but I’m worried that overloading you will just make things worse. All I want you to know is that I’m you. I’m you, just a different you._

_Which is confusing enough in itself, isn’t it? I know you won’t believe me. You’ll think it’s just one of Richie’s pranks. It’s your first day of school today, and your mom packed your bags. Richie embarrassed you with a joke, I can’t remember about what, he was always telling jokes. You met up with Beverly and Ben - and Eddie was nowhere in sight, was he? You didn’t question it, his mother always drives him to school. There’s no need to worry._

_I need you to listen to me. If you don’t listen to me, something bad will happen to your friends._

_Something bad will happen to Stan, Bill. I know this is hard, but I know you want to keep your friends safe. You need to question where Eddie is in the morning, and you need to go find him. Don’t go to baseball tryouts tonight, Stan is going to ask you to hang out._

_Please listen to me._

Sprawled across his hands, two palms supporting the hefty weight of the letter. It forced him to rest his fingers against his thighs. With an impossible bout of exhaustion, as if the words had sapped the bleeding childish excitement from him that seemed rampant hours before, he reread the letter until he was certain that he knew it word by word, line by line. Closing his eyes brought the familiar curling handwriting to print against his blackened vision. _Please listen to me,_ it whispered with pleading narrative, but Bill felt the ominous press of the words, the slack threat that hung among that idea of disobeying.

Eyelids, closed against the harsh light of the bathroom to absolve himself in a moment of darkness, opened with hurried horror. _You need to question where Eddie is in the morning, and you need to go find him._ Expectant writer had been led to believe that Bill would read the letter in the morning light, struck by fierce curiosity rather than rampant fear. Eddie was driven to school by his mother, and had been ever since he had started attending Derry Middle School.

With no more thought to the truth of the letter, his mind conquered by the single idea of Eddie being hurt, the letter was reduced to a scrunched up ball of paper and shoved into the depths of his bag. The stall door swung shut with a clang, the bathroom door with a bang, and he skidded to a halt in front of a teacher, narrowly missing a head on collision in his hurry. She seemed to debate over issuing a reprimand, heavy brow pleated, before dismissing him by turning her gaze. He walked until he was out of her sight, turning rigidly down the corridor, before continuing his heavy footfalls.

A thousand bodies piling into the corridor as the lunch bell rang had made the walk seem short, the jostle of others’ arms and warmth carrying him forward, but it stretched on for an eternity as his feet clashed against the tiles, a muted desperation blooming into near-panic. Doors burst open under the intent of his hands, and his eyes sprinted over the tables, only those near the doors turning to shoot him a mixture of glares and inquisitive glances.

Red hair drew his gaze, and his steps were subdued in the facade of calmness as he approached the table they had chosen. Huddled under the protective arm of Beverly’s smooth grip was Eddie’s bobbing head, and it tightened around his shoulders as she heard the incoming threat of footsteps. “Bill’s here,” Richie whispered, hand spread across the table as he ducked below Beverly’s head, eyes finding Eddie’s. Beverly’s arm, dusted by the thin light that spread over the cafeteria, loosened.  

“What happened?” Suppressed tremble threatened to overpower his voice, but he held back the guilty tides with the flick of his eyes between them all. Richie’s mouth opened to answer, but Bill’s eyes were focused on the huddled mass beneath Beverly’s arm, and they knew it was no one’s story to tell but Eddie’s. They knew Bill would have accepted no other words than Eddie’s.

With a reluctant acceptance of his burden, Eddie tore his eyes from the calming blue of Richie’s to take in Bill. A flower of speckled purple had bloomed across his cheek. Smaller grazes decorated his chin and nose, a snarling cut slicing from his cheek and to the tip of his nose. Drops of red had smeared across his blue shirt, one his mother must have bought late into the summer under the fragile pleas of her son. It was ruined. Sonia wouldn’t ever let him keep something that had been marred with blood.

Dull, throbbing pains attacked behind Bill’s eyes, a warning of a headache overcoming him. His legs wobbled, body swaying as if caught in a delicate wind, and Ben shuffled over to make room for Bill. He sat with a low thump, eyes still fixed on the blood, Eddie’s eyes heavy and lost as they focused on Bill’s face. “What happened?”

“Belch was stood in the carpark, and he must have waited until my mama drove off.” It was all Eddie could manage to confess. Anything else would have left him in sobbing misery, his shoulders shaking as he made inadequate little noises, a thousand words trapped on his tongue, at a loss with the inability to speak them. Bill understood. Freckled arm fell over Eddie’s shoulder once more, and his cheek rested against Beverly’s chest, her other hand running through his hair. With a crumpled brow and stern lips, she looked every part the agitated protector. Clarity was a painful mistress, and it came quickly to Bill, the jagged thought that he could have stopped this from happening hitting him.

Fingers balanced upon Eddie’s shoulder, deft and poised, the nails trimmed finely down. Gaze trailed along the fingers to the thin wrist, the sparrow-quaint arms, the dove-boned shoulders, until it fell on Stan’s worried face. There were certain types of almost people in the world. Almost ambitious, almost smart, almost pretty. Those people caught between inabilities and heartbreak and desperation. Richie was an almost person. Belch was a nothing person. Stan was an everything person, and Bill knew he was the only everything person he’d ever meet. He hadn’t realised he was staring until Stan’s eyes flickered to his own, searching for some kind of answer, and running cold at the stalling confusion.

A soft thrumming noise shook the walls, before it grew louder, a blaring ringing that summoned the teenagers to their feet. Standing with the congregation, a nervous glance was thrown across the table, before Stan gingerly sat himself back down.

“No, it’s okay, you guys can go,” Beverly murmured, with all the shooing aggression of a librarian. None of the boys disobeyed. Like children sent to their rooms, they stood with bowed heads. “I’ll take Eddie out back for some smokes. I’ve already missed most of the day, there’s no harm in skipping out the last part.”

Mournful silence descended on them as they filed from the cafeteria, Ben and Richie waving their farewells as they parted. Stan lifted his hand in return, and Bill had the strength to return a nod. The silence continued until Stan found his next class, a muffled voice from behind the door already taking names.

“Why were you running into the cafeteria? I thought you were just worried about Eddie, but you clearly didn’t know anything.” Though it was years before Stan would become an accountant, he had the vague air of prestige and stuffy suits about him at all times. His posture was forcefully straight. His hair was precisely parted, and his kippah rested serenely on his head. His shirts never betrayed a crumple or a wrinkle, tightly tucked into his pants. He was a shrunken adult.

He was beautiful. Heat rose over Bill's cheek at the invading thought, the intensity behind it, the way beauty and the shape of Stan’s smile seemed impossible to separate.

“I was worried I’d be late for lunch, and euh-euh-everyone would have eaten without me.” The letter throbbed. His hands quaked.

“We wouldn’t eat without you, Bill,” Stan promised, head twisting over his shoulders when a faint voice called out the familiar roll of his name, followed by a murmur of confusion. “Hey, Bill, what are you doing tonight?”

Two thoughts came in succession: baseball tryouts were tonight, and the letter had told him not to go. A mind less consumed by inner turmoil would have been able to spot the hopeful gleam burning in Stan’s eyes, the nervous fidget of his questioning body, but Bill instead thought on wasted opportunities. His dad would probably come to games if he played baseball. He’d always liked the outfits, the hats, the feel of a bat in his hands. Stan could cheer for him in the crowds, all of them could make signs with his name printed on them.

He thought of the crawling purple bruise on Eddie’s features, the red spots on his new shirt. Wasted opportunities came by the dozen, regrets that festered and eased resentment. “I’m free tonight, what’s up?”  

“I was thinking of going down to the Barrens, but I didn’t want to go alone.”

“I’m in.”

Hopeful touch had been replaced by quiet pleasure, the softening smile over Stan’s lips a rare and wondrous thing. Fingers, that had not so long ago soothed Eddie, reached out to adjust the strap of Bill’s bag over his shoulder. “You’d get yourself into trouble without us, Bill,” Stan laughed, a free noise to be shared only between them, and Bill luxuriated in the private nature of the moment. He felt secluded, and powerful.

“I get myself into more trouble with you.”

Chuckle gave way to a wink, and Stan turned to his classroom, and marched through the door with the same depleting look as a man entering a funeral. His beauty had seeped from him. Pallid and loitering, Bill resolved to talk to the coach about arranging separate tryouts later, resolving himself to no wasted opportunities.


	2. remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bill mourns the loss of stan uris

Half-empty scotch bottle sat like a jagged centerpiece on the table. Scattered remains of a forgotten Losers Club lingered around the mess, the junk they hadn’t remembered to take with them in their hurried escape. Booze bottles that hadn’t fared so well, passed between them as if they were teenagers seeking attention at a party, were stuffed away beneath the table, each fallen warrior being pushed in the pile after it had been sucked dry. 

Glasses rested beside a scrunched up wad of paper, a small crack running through the lense, fading dust speckled around the mark. They were Richie’s, but from another age, a different time, before he’d discovered the joys of contact lenses. Everything about them seemed touched with childhood. Derry was already polluting them. It filled the empty spaces within them, the gaping wounds their bodies had become, the hollowness of heart and mind. 

Pouring himself a drink, his hand shook, the tap of the bottle trembling against his glass echoing throughout the library. Mike’s hand steadied his own. The bottle was stolen from him, placed beside Beverly’s open purse. Lipstick spilled from the silver material, a muted pink that shone glossy in the low light, beside a loose stack of coins and some sweet wrappers. He knew the familiar yellow and orange zigzags from when he was younger, the seven of them pooling their money for a picnic of tooth decay.

“You’re gonna start smelling like a bar on New Year’s Eve, Bill. Maybe you should relax on the drinking a little.” Voice had grown husky with age and gin, the lilting twang of childhood disappearing, and the crackle of it over the phone hadn’t done it justice. Peace bloomed in his chest, swaying unconsciously toward the sound of the voice. His warm fingers rested against Bill’s shoulder, the lightness inside of him constricting as he felt the weight of it tugging him under. 

Drink was lifted to his lips, and downed in fleeting seconds, the glass slamming down against the table hard enough to chip. Impatient fingers tapped against the side, throat burning from the scotch, wildfire set inside of him even as his hands felt winter cold. “Yeah, I’m gonna stop now,” Bill coughed, loosening his grip as Mike wiggled the glass free from him, placing it beside the rescued scotch bottle. 

A curse seemed to scorn him, the hopeful promise of mind-numbing drunkenness escaping him. Sobriety clung to him as if in warning that a muddled brain could be taken advantage of, and no weakness was allowed to be shown in Derry. It invited in dark things. 

“You got a room booked out for you? Some place where you can go?” Mike’s fingers spread over his back as Bill hunched forward to make more room for the touch. It was soothing and methodical, the way Mike’s palm rubbed circles over his shirt, his other hand resting high on his arm. With the clarity of a dying man, Bill knew he loved Mike. Mike was easy to love.

Like sweetened honey on warm summer days, Mike was a pleasant memory. He was softening eyes and nervous touches, a boy trying to slot himself into their friendship group as if they could offer him any kind of sanctuary. A boy trying to find his place. Bill wanted to tell Mike that there was never a group without him, that there had always been an empty place for him to fill, there was no room needed to be made for him. He had existed within them before they even knew his name.

Lips moved in attempt to ease Mike with his words, but his thoughts were too muffled to be spoken aloud. Something in Mike’s eyes was too easy, and Bill knew that he didn’t have to say the words for the other to know they were true. 

In the same rush of overlapping thoughts, he knew he loved Eddie, too. He was hidden strength and tarnished steel, the scrunched up faces of children when they realised the sweetness of sour candy was nothing more than a trick. He was there before the others, in the time where nothing really existed and everything was summer, and Bill loved him in a powerful sort of way. He remembered how his smaller palm, clammy from exhaustion, would often grope at his arm when he needed to be assured that Bill was there, Bill would know what to do.

He felt the true extent of powerlessness when he realised that he no longer conjured the same helpless trusting from Eddie. Whatever power had been guiding them was lost with age or with death. 

“I got a room. I don’t think I can go there and be alone right now, though, Mike. I just don’t think I can.” Desperation slowed his voice to a beat of words, underlied by the simple truth that spun across his tongue. Some force inside of him knew that he couldn’t leave Mike, and that Mike wouldn’t leave him; the loyalty of childhood seemed ingrained into them, regardless of the passage of time, unruptured by their aged skin and sallow smiles. 

Only Ben seemed to look more youthful in his age. Ben, who sung with his need for companionship, the longing that had been left unfilled and abandoned for years, until their little group had found him. Time had treated Beverly well, but age and worry had creased the lines of her forehead, buried inside into grooved smile lines. He thought of how she taught them all to yo-yo, passing Richie’s old miss between them until they could master tricks with ease, and how the sunlight could never compete with the brilliant smiles she shared with them. 

Crooked teeth and glasses had long since cleared from Richie’s face, leaving handsome imprints over features that had seemed goofy in their childhood. He thought of Richie’s harsh elbow sticking into his ribs, jokes that were uttered too loudly, jabs that cut a little too deeply. Loving Richie had been hard, but he had never stopped. He loved Richie because and in spite of. 

“You can stay here for as long as you need, Bill. Let me go get you a glass of water.” 

Leaning back in his chair, Bill lifted his hands to his eyes, rubbing at them until bursts of colour exploded behind the lids. Dancing greens formed moonlit swirls, appearing like the water that would boil over witches’ cauldrons in the fairytales he had learned by heart, bleeding into flashing purples before he dropped his hands away. Fingers rested on the edges of the table, and Bill inspected the bitten-edges of his nails.

“How did you end up getting rid of that stutter, anyway, Bill?” Smooth change of the subject sounded too rough on Mike’s lips, hand trembling enough for the water to slosh over the side of the glass and tremble down the side in a snake-like tendril. Dabbing at himself with his handkerchief, Mike stared at him with eyes that were too trusting and too knowing. Bill felt like a frog about to be dissected. 

“You know how those things tend to go, Mike.” Half-shrug, his words were non-committal, staring hard at the glass as if it would transform into liquor before his very eyes. “Must have lost it with my hair.” His chuckle felt hollow, having seen too many harsh winters to keep the jolly touch of youth. Everything about him felt withered and tired. 

“Drink the water, Bill. You’ll feel better with a clear head.” Hand rested on his back, gentle in how it forced him to lean closer to the table. Sensing he wouldn’t win the argument, his fingers closed around the glass, bringing it to his lips. His head swam deeper into the sea-blue ocean of misery he had caught himself in, a fish writhing in a net, seaweed stuck in the tide, the crash of waves forcing him to sink. His exhaustion felt sea-deep, but distant. As if it didn’t quite belong to him.

He didn’t realise he was crying until Mike’s arms wrapped around him. The glass was dropped back to the table with a dull thump, ocean rising inside of him and spilling its sea-salt down his cheeks. Bill’s fingers scrambled at Mike’s shoulders, trying to push him away to ensure the other he was fine, before feeling himself deflate and simply hold Mike closer. Cinnamon and apple stuck to him, the old grime of farmwork long forgotten in his soft arms and careful smile. 

“I can’t believe I’m back.” Sigh brushed Mike’s hair into a swooning dance, before settling once more. His voice broke, barely able to mutter out the last word, head dropping to rest against Mike’s shoulder. As soothing as a mother’s caress, Mike’s hands combed through Bill’s thinning hair, pressing a small kiss to his forehead. “Fuck. Fuck. I can’t believe we’re really back. Except it’s not really ‘we’ anymore, is it?” 

Seven seats sat around the table, but only six bore the heat of a person. The seventh had turn deadly cold, the faint flicker of ghostly nature inhabiting it, before passing over to the great beyond. Another sob broke from Bill’s chest, held up entirely by Mike’s body as the other patted at his back to calm the childish agony that broke over him. “He’s still here if we let him be,” Mike whispered, worried anything louder would just upset Bill more

“You know that isn’t what I meant.” Pulling himself away from Mike, drifting from the warmth he had surrounded him with, Bill wrang his hands in nervous grief. “I still don’t remember much about him. Stan. And he isn’t even here to help me remember, but….”

“You remember enough to be sad,” Mike hummed, reaching out and patting at the man’s knee. It was mourning of a memory more than a person, of flashes that sung out in the midst of cold forgetting. Bill supposed it was a selfish pain. 

“I’ve never lost anyone like this before. It’s never hurt like this before.” To the annoyance of the sobbing man, lightning strike lines of tears trailing across his cheeks even as he wiped at them, a vague stutter had began to ebb at his voice. Words were caught between hiccups, stretched out by his tongue until they trembled and withered. It felt as if an infinity had passed between each word, heavy with the wound of grief. 

Mike thought about the summer after Georgie’s death, the catalyst that had set their lives into motion, and the way death had made Bill grow into someone different. There was an air of adulthood that clung to him, the touch of ghostly beginnings and emptiness that seemed to fill each adult.

It was less of a loss and more of a change, intangible to the young minds of children who used to hide in the barrens and invent their own monsters to block out the ones that truly prowled, but Mike knew it clearly now. He saw the echoes of it across Bill’s face. Perhaps Bill remembered Georgie, in the same way people thought about black and white pictures of a town that had only started existing once they had been born, but the pain of it would come later. 

“You know what he was like?” Head fell into Bill’s open palms, one carrying the mark of promises that sliced through his skin, and shook gently. Laugh lines had long since scarred his face a railroad track of age, and Mike knew that the power they had wielded of children had drifted away from them. Sorrow was a visible colour over Bill’s being. “I mean - what was he like before he died? Who was he when he left? What was his life?” 

“I can put you in contact with his wife, Patty Uris.” Wife seemed more fitting than widow, though the latter applied more easily to the case. He remembered her soft heaving breaths as she relayed the story to him, as dull and lifeless as an automated message, and Mike knew two lives had been wasted. After asking how they knew each other, Mike had muttered a line about their childhood, and hung up before any other questions could be asked. 

“I don’t want to speak to his wife.” Dismissive hand lifted from his forehead to wave at Mike, shoulders sunken and eyes drooping with tired disbelief. Patty and Stan Uris. A wedding he had never been invited to, filled with people he wouldn’t have known, and a version of Stan that no longer sung of summer and youth. He mourned a memory he couldn’t quite remember, while Patty fought against the painful vividness of loss. His pain was only a whisper. “Just tell me anything about him, Mike. Anything you knew. Or make something fucking up, I don’t care, I just need you to.”

“He was an accountant.” A brief, deliberate silence passed after his words, the settling of air around them. Nervous energy poured from Bill, his fingers curled around the glass as if it was his last lifeline to anything resembling normalcy. His little finger tapped an uneven pattern, and Mike waited for him to respond, but he sat in eerie quietness. He couldn’t be sure if he even heard Bill breathe. “Married a girl he met at a college party. Parents disapproved, I think I heard. He was good at his job. No kids.”

A constant between all the Losers, no matter how happy they seemed in their relationships, no matter how often they had tried; something inside of them had been tarnished by Derry. Clearing his head, the mismatch of thoughts that crumbled together in Bill’s drunken mind, Bill fell back into his chair, arms sprawled comfortably at his sides.

“How do you know all this about him, Mike?” Hint of near-jealousy hid in his voice at the idea that Mike knew more about Stan than he did, than he ever would, but he dismissed it quick enough that it didn’t cover his face. It wasn’t as if Mike was keeping anything from him; he was just feeding him in easy-to-handle chunks so Bill didn’t choke on the rush of horrors. Knowing wasn’t the same as loving.

“I kept updated on you guys. I felt like I had to. I was the only person who stayed in Derry, I had to remember, and I had to keep my eyes on all of you. And word of mouth travels fast, especially about those who make it big. The Historical Society wanted you all back to do speeches for the high school, but I told them that you’d never do it. This just isn’t the kind of place you come back to.” There was no bitterness in his voice at being left behind. His role of self-sacrificial lamb had felt destined. 

Bill’s head hung as heavy as a weeping moon, daisy-white eyes blossoming shut. “Of course he was good at his job. He always liked things being in order.” A weight sat over Bill’s ragged composure, an unhealing blot touching him. His words seemed red-tinted, the jovial edge that had cut through him in the comfort of his friends drifting away. 

Mike’s fingers spread warm over his back, rubbing over the notches of his spine. Bill, despite the hurricane of agony that swept through his chest, chanced a watery smile at the other. Mike’s fingers hitched over his spine at the sight, before continuing their smooth climb and descent, crushing the mountains of Bill’s body into tamed hills. “You’re going to be okay.” 

“Not tonight, Mike. Not tonight.” Head shook, hair swaying with the movement. A loose strand caught on his cheek, and Mike brushed it away. His fingers pressed against Bill’s cheek. Tears were wiped away by his hands, and Bill allowed himself to be taken care of. 

“We know better than anyone that there’s nothing you can’t heal from.” Though his body reeled against the gesture, Bill nodded his head to the familiar tempo of Mike’s words. It was easy to fall into a rhythm. The beat of their friendship crescendoed around them in pulsing whispers, an alcove carved from years of intimacy long forgotten, only now breaching Bill’s thoughts. Mike stood to his feet, and Bill missed his touch instantly. “I’m going to call you a cab, you need a good night’s sleep. I’ll check on Beverly, and see if you can room with her tonight.” 

Depleted in his chair, Bill gave a muted nod to Mike’s words. His body hovered and hesitated, before walking through the forests of books, and disappearing into the small office in the back. A desk stood close to the ajar door, bereft without the assistant perched on the edge of their seat, fingers busying themselves typing away or eyeing the rising murmur of childish enjoyment. 

An attempt was made to force himself into the aura of normalcy, smoothing down his crumpled clothes with the wide palm of his hand, touching at his hair, dabbing at the tears that grew cold on his chin. His knees stuttered as he straightened himself out, clambering from his chair. His body felt captured in an unseen wind, quivering as it was whipped into a frenzy, before finding stability as his hands reached out to spread across the table. Deep breathes passed his lips. 

The flood of footsteps filled the room, and Bill’s head cocked toward the noise. Eyes unfocused, the blurred image of Mike’s form haloed by bright lights appeared from his office. He brought with him a deeper scent of books, the heady smell of worn pages and dust, fingers clasped around a small bundle. 

“Beverly said she’ll wait outside of the Townhouse for you, and lead you upstairs. I said you’re probably not in any state to go up alone.” Eyes tripped to the bottle, a little slither still left inside, a vein drained by a hungry vampire. Standing to his feet, Bill resisted the near-natural urge to sway, trying to appear stout and resolute. A meek smile crossed Mike’s face at the sight of him, moon-pale and shivering. 

“What do you have there, Mike?” Head inclined to the small stack, Bill’s hand stumbled as he gestured toward it. The meek smile grew. Arm laced around Bill’s waist, and though he outsized Mike by an impressive few inches, the taller still leaned his weight helplessly into the other. Mike took a few steps, adjusted his grip, and then took a few more. 

“Come on, come on, let’s get you outside.” Words encouraged a few feeble steps from Bill, before his weight collapsed against Mike again, the other taking it with little more than a huffed grunt. Bill’s head lolled over the other’s shoulder, slumping further down to reach for it, and Mike’s grunt turned into a humming laugh. 

“Mike, have you been alone with Ben tonight?” Laughter cut short as the cool air tapped at their skin, the library doors thrown upon with a squealing creak as Mike navigated it with one hand. Bill lamely pawed at the door with his free hand, but wasn’t much help. “It’s been a while since you two last saw each other, huh?”

“Sure it has, Bill. Sure it has.” A cab rolled to a halt in front of the two men, the bright yellow stark against the backdrop of darkening blues and blacks. The windows were tinted, a facade of night existing forever within the leather seats and lavender air freshener. Two pink, furry dice hung from a mirror. Prices were printed in blurred letters across the side. Bill barely noticed anything outside of the swaying in his knees, and Mike’s hand firm on his back as he ushered him into the car. 

“You should talk to Ben,” Bill hurried out, words sloshing together. He felt the finality of the cab door closing. In hushed voices, Mike and the driver discussed location, jerky little nods leaving the man as Mike gave directions. With timid intentions, Bill rapped his fingers on the window, and rolled it down. Mike peered inside. The two of them spent a long moment speaking unfathomable sentences with their eyes, the car lurching to life beneath Bill’s hands. His eyes fell shut, and the world lost its haze.

“You should talk to Stan.” Mike waved a hand toward the driver, and asked him to wait for just a second longer. Bill’s head tipped back, and he longed for the bitter taste of whiskey, the cleansing way it left him empty and new. He’d be born-again by scrubbing away at himself. 

“I would if I could, Mike. God, if only I could.” Palm lifted to press against his eye. Shaking his head, Bill threatened to burst into tears, a sniffling cough causing Mike to avert his gaze. It felt wrong to watch Bill for too long as he boiled in his misery. 

“You can.” Pile was pushed over the opening in the window, and fell with a dull clatter into the safety of Bill’s lap. His fingers ran along the stack, tied together with a piece of red and blue string, the letters and envelopes all blank. The crisp whiteness looked as if it was begging for the spill of ink across its ribcage, something palpable and intriguing confessed along the pages. His eyes swam with curiosity, lifting to meet Mike’s.

“I don’t think there’s an address for wherever Stan is.” 

“You don’t need to send them. You don’t even need to address them to Stan. Address them to yourself.” Bill’s brow creased, liquor addled mind unpicking the words with amiable animosity. “Just write about him. About all of us. It’ll help you remember, and it’ll help you with Stan’s death. Write about what you’d change. If you could change anything. Think of it like magic, Bill, the good kind of magic. Not Derry magic, but our magic. Lucky Seven magic. Write, and write, and post them. It’s what you do best.” 

The first thing Bill Denbrough did when he woke up the next morning, head throbbing and eyes aching, was write. 


	3. wander on repeat

It had rained with a dreary glee. The world around him, that had been touched with a honey-glow the same morning, was flooded. A drop dribbled down Bill’s forehead, then another, and another, until a tsunami was building inside of his shirt. An odd warmth still hung in the air, tainting the rain into heated droplets, clinging and sticking to Bill’s skin. The sidewalk lay abused beneath the torrents, gravel turning darker, the Earth turning inky. 

When he rolled his shoulders back, the fabric of his coat stretched and yielded around a body that was far too big for its confines. A growth spurt had struck him, and the second-skin of his clothes failed to adjust right. He was certain that he had grown nothing more than a few inches, but the tightness of everything he owned made him feel grotesquely disproportionate to his friends. Even Richie hadn't caught up yet.

Fingers brushed his hair from his eyes, a silent curse wasted on himself for not bothering to bring an umbrella. His curses grew louder as a car raced past, windshield wipers desperately working away, wheels trudging through puddles. Water spewed into Bill's face as it passed him, rain shooting from above and below, leaving Bill feeling drowned and uncomfortable.

Arms wrapped tightly around himself, a shoddy solace as the world raged on, Bill glanced left and right in anticipation of more cars rolling by, but the streets were empty. Summer had disappeared, and the world had faded into quiet blurriness. He skipped puddles the best he could as he walked across the road, hopping and tiptoeing to the sides, feet sinking into the mud once he reached the entrance to the Barrens. The branches parted for him, water droplets trickling down his coat as he ducked and crouched through the brambles. He could barely squeeze through anymore.

His feet slid through the mud, sticking in a thick paste to his shoes, tainting the hem of his jeans. A stray branch leapt out at him as he battled his way across the muddy slope, his hands knocking it away as it scratched against his cheek. Finally gaining his balance as he reached the bottom of the hill, he checked the heels of his shoes. Nothing could be done to save them now. He dragged them over the small wood bridge, a storage place for bikes and toy guns and little kids when they were playing their hide-and-seek games. The grassy bank that flowed beneath the bridge was usually devoid of life, but the water had made its home in the dip, filling it so completely that it splashed against Bill's feet.

With a few more branches knocked from their resting places, Bill emerged into their safe haven, the deepest heart of the Barrens. Cliffs stood tall and proud, framing the scenic pond, home to gentle sands spreading over the land, blending into the grass that sat beyond it. The sand had turned a watery grey, losing the virile golds that had shimmered below a yawning sun, but everything else in the Barrens flourished beneath the rain - Stan was no exception.

He lounged alone, one hand curling around a book, the other keeping his balance behind him. A beach umbrella lolled above him, swaying with the poise of a dancer as the wind caught it and let it go, steadily keeping the rain from touching the sheltered cherub. A picnic blanket protected him from the touch of the damp grass. The sloshing of the world washing away didn't bother him as his fingers turned the page, captivated and captivating. Bill drew closer, guilt brewing inside of him at breaking the fae creature from his daze.

"I didn't know you were bringing a picnic." Bill stood outside the circle of sanctuary, teetering on the edge as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The rain made his clothes feel heavy and clinging, weighted beneath the drag of them. 

A finger was held up to hush Bill, before a bookmark was slotted into the page, the book neatly lying beside the basket. Eyes turned on him, growing wide at the sight, a shivering Bill Denbrough standing outside of the protective shelter. He shuffled further to the side, pointing at the space on the blanket, whispering a soft ‘come here’. 

“If I knew you were bringing food, I would have brought lemonade or something.” Shiver caused his teeth to knock together around his words, peeling off his coat and letting it rest against warm blanket. The air held no chill, still warm from a summer that had only half-passed, and Bill was thankful that he wouldn’t freeze.

“I was thinking that if we get thirsty, we’d just hang the cups out of the umbrella and wait a few seconds for them to fill up.” Stan’s voice was sweet, a dash of fond mirth making the words sound sugary, even as his eyes glanced from Bill’s coat to his wet shirt, clinging to his rain-speckled skin. “You’ll catch your death if you don’t bother bringing an umbrella out the next time it rains.”

“Death by water? At least I’ll die clean.” As he spoke, Bill smoothed the rain drops over his arms, pressing down on them until they disappeared into his skin. Stan watched his fingers with abstract curiosity. There was something strong about them, sure in each movement, sweeping away at the water in quick jerks.

“It doesn’t matter how you die, dead is dead.” A frown had turned Stan’s summer-lit features into the stormy wilds of winter. He flopped back against the blanket, eyeing the white underside of the umbrella, arms spread above his head. There were fine hairs on his thin arms, slightly damp from rain, and the hem of his shirt rode up an inch when he stretched. Bill wondered if Stan had outgrew his clothes as well. “That’s pretty morbid to talk about, isn’t it? Death.” 

“Especially considering we were just talking about lemonade,” Bill nodded, and the two shared a laugh, the sound of it melting together. Stan’s eyes skipped back to Bill, his palms spreading warm over his chest, the hard line of his shoulders turning soft. He looked like a resting angel, his wings neatly tucked away, safe from the rain.

Two pairs of eyes dragged out to watch the rain fall, the soundtrack of pitter-patter falling on the umbrella making it hard to ignore. Stan glanced with twinkling eyes, because he had yet to face the rain, but his mood would surely turn sullen on the walk home. Bill’s brow was crumbled, lips pulled into a thin line, staring past the rain. Thoughts swirled in his mind, clouds of dark grey thundering over him. While Stan was dry warmth, everything about Bill had been touched with rain. There was debate etched into the lines of his face, cold and hard, and Stan didn’t meet his gaze. Something told him to leave the other’s to his thoughts. He always talked when he was given time. 

“Stan, can I tell you something?” His voice was quiet, but it made the sound of the rain bleed out, as if nothing else could make a sound while Bill spoke. His presence demanded attention, the same adultlike regard of a schoolteacher. Propping himself on his elbow, the blanket rough against his skin, Stan turned to face the other.

“You can tell me anything,” he said, but he wasn’t sure he meant it. 

“I got...a note this morning.” Bill’s voice, one that was usually tinged with quiet authority, seemed to waver as he spoke. Stan waited for some explanation, but Bill just kept staring into the rain, into the distance. 

“Excuse me? Like a love letter, Bill?” Voice sly, smirk hidden behind the palm of his hand as he muffled a giggle, Stan hit Bill lightly with his elbow. There was something white and noisy curling in his gut at the thought, but it wasn’t as if he had never expected someone to harbour feelings for Bill. He was a safe choice for girls, with a gentle smile and a soothing voice, the recklessness that festered inside of him hidden. “On your first day as well? That’s lucky.” 

“No, not like a love letter,” Bill sighed, shaking his head. His fingers moved to cup his cheek, elbow resting against his bent knee, eyes flickering to Stan, before refocusing back on the landscape. He had the interest of a painter, running his eyes over every new pattern that emerged from the downpour. “Just a letter. From…someone. It said that Eddie was going to get hurt.” 

Stan’s face turned a deathly white. As Bill turned to look at him, Stan glanced away. He jerked into a sitting position, shoulders straight and hands folded neatly in his lap. A curl dangled out of place, drooping into his forehead, and Stan made no move to fix it. “Well, who do you think it was from? Was it a threat?” 

A single idea hung in the air between them, but neither made a move to address the question: hadn’t they killed IT? A softer question filled the next moments of silence, the childlike pleading that hadn’t left them - hadn’t they suffered enough? 

“No, it wasn’t...threatening. It was a warning.” Some of the tension escaped Stan’s shoulders, but his body refused to go lax. Memories had already began to swim in his mind, ones that were more feelings than episodes. The fright that rose within him was something he wouldn’t fully understand until years had passed, twenty six give or take a few months. The clock had already began. 

“I’d say it was probably Belch, but I’m not sure he knows how to write.” Stan offered something akin to smile, but it was weak over his lips, a waning sunset. The peace that had descended over Stan had washed away. Even untouched by the rain, he suddenly seemed too heavy. Gathering his knees to his chest, Stan laced his arms around them and rested his cheek against the curve. Both boys stared out into the rain. 

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Bill said, voice catching in his throat, too strained as it left him. Stan gave little more than a hum in response, neither a confirmation or a denial, but Bill knew that worrying the other was an attempt to quell his own fears rather than caring for Stan’s. He’d always shouldered the world a little harder than the rest of them. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out a hand to press lightly against the boy’s arm.

The skin was raised with goosebumps. Squeezing at his arm, he felt the skin warm beneath his touch, the tense line of Stan’s shoulders bleeding away. The boy’s head turned to face him with slow precision. 

“No, you should have.” There was a pause between them, unease passing over Stan’s features. “Can I see the letter?” 

“I didn’t bring it with me.” 

The letter, with its faded writing that had been traced endlessly by Bill’s fingers with absent interest, was crumpled in his pocket. It had been neatly folded, kept safe in the envelope it had arrived in, but the world had worn on it. Tattered by the jumble of his bag, and then tarnished by the rain, Bill was certain that it would smudged and dripping, holes ripping and chipping away at the paper. It was odd how easy it was to ruin something that seemed of such great importance. 

“Oh.” The word was empty, a way to fill the silence between them, but he saw the way Stan’s body changed. Any leftover rigidness in his muscles fled, and his tight frown relaxed, his crumbled brow smoothing and renewing. He looked vaguely shifted, as if something had moved him to the side and he needed to refocus, but he was calmer. If he didn’t have to look at the letter, it didn’t exist to him; it couldn’t hurt him. “You should tell Mike. I bet he’d find it interesting, at least.” There was a desperate pleading in Stan’s voice. His hands flattened out his shirt, bunching slightly around his waist from his endless shifting. 

“I think I will,” Bill agreed, but he sounded doubtful. It suddenly occurred to him that he shouldn’t be bothering his friends with something like this, that they’d suffered enough. It was nothing. He would tell them if it became more important. He thought of Eddie’s choked voice, his face buried in Beverly’s shoulder, hiding cuts and bruises and tears. Something more important. 

The two sat in stillness. The world around them was shaking, everything unstable from the rain, the fond quiet that fell over them turning into stunted silence. Stan seemed on the edge, shaking apart, hiding away the rise and fall of nerves that had polluted his life behind a dry smile and tense shoulders. He was rattled, and that scared Bill more than anything. Stan wasn’t a coward; he was just smart about these things. He sensed danger tentatively, reaching out into the dark with a clinical interest, recoiling as soon as something foreign touched him. Bill’s fingers looped around the torn pages of the letter in his pocket, the remnants of a memory that both belonged to him and to someone else. 

“Do you want to go swimming?” Eyes slipped from the lake, returning to Stan. Something bright broke out of the darkness that had swept over his face. 

“We’ll get soaked to the bone,” Stan said, a smile in his voice that couldn’t quite reach his face. His clothes were crisp and freshly ironed, repellent of both stains, water, and Richie; the three reckless forces in Stan’s life. 

“I already am.” The world felt too constricting. Bill wanted to bury himself beneath it, allow the lake to wash away the parts of him that still clung to fear, the parts of him that couldn’t see. 

“Oh, so you want to punish me just because you didn’t bring an umbrella?” Dullness vanished from Stan’s eyes, shining like the glimpse of sunshine buried beneath grey clouds. A smirk crossed his lips, hands folded in his lap, gaze falling onto the lake.

“It’ll be fun! And you’ll get wet walking home, anyway, it won’t make much of a difference.” A pause passed between the two of them, a moment of deliberation, debate splitting Stan’s features.

“Well, I don’t have a swimming costume.” A sigh left Stan’s lips, merry and sweet, a carnival trapped in a sound. He held Bill in his peripheral vision, daring him to deliver the pinnacle of his argument, the final blow. Bill didn’t disappoint.

“Well, we don’t  _ need  _ swimming costumes.” 

Laughter fell from Stan’s lips, and Bill could breathe again. The gentle shaking of Stan’s chest, the tremble of his lips as the sound danced in the air between them, was the idea of handsome that Bill would carry with him, even when he could no longer remember where it came from. Stan was written in something deeper than his mind. 

“Go on, then,” he urged, gesturing to the lake, testing Bill’s honesty. 

Needing no more prompting, Bill peeked out from beneath the umbrella, and stood to his feet. Stan followed, eyes never leaving Bill. The rain had grown no less sporadic. As they stepped into the onslaught, it covered them in one single, swift breath, from head to toe. There was no judgement in the rain, no choice or reason. It merely fell, a challenge to anyone brave enough to linger in it. 

The two boys started in tentative steps towards the expanse of water, mud sticking to their shoes and water washing it away, glancing at each other every other step to check the other didn’t chicken out. The sky had lightened from a blackened ash to a low grey, a strip of sunshine beaming through the parted clouds. The rain was still summer-warm, almost comforting as it touched them, the promise of autumn hanging in the air. 

The trees around them were still lush with their green leaves, but Bill knew it wouldn’t be long until the world had turned into golds and oranges, beautiful as it died. 

Lifting his fingers to his coat, Bill’s hand slipped around a button, fiddling with it once he managed to grip it. It hit the floor with a heavy thump, crumpled in a pile. Stan stared at it, considering, before his slow footsteps burst into a run, agile over the slippery mud. Bill followed him, filling the air with childish exhalation, the glee of ‘whoos’ and ‘whoops’ blending with laughter. 

His hands picked at his shirt, abandoning it on the ground, toeing off his shoes mid-run. Stan’s movements were mechanical and assured, stopping close to the lake. Swollen from the rain, the edges of the lake spilled water, wetting Stan’s shoes. He held them into the spray. Mud fell away in clumps, wet and malleable, earning a grimace from the curly-haired boy. 

Knuckles tinged red from the rain, fingers deft, Stan folded his cardigan neatly, trampling over to a rock to rest them on. Nothing could protect it from the rain, but it wouldn’t be a victim of the mud. His shirt was next, pulled over his head, the barely formed muscles of his back flexing. Bill stared with a holy wonder, the skin glowing pink and cream, little spots of blush blooming wherever rain hit him. 

Bill reached the edge of the lake, the warm water brushing over his ankles, surprising him with how far he’d stepped into it. He shuffled back, shoes parting through the mud, eyes fixed on Stan. Head peeked over his shoulder, curls plastered to his forehead and lips pressed into a thin smile. He looked divine, and Bill began his silent worship once more. 

Shoes and pants abandoned by the both of them, Bill’s sprawled near the pregnant lake, Stan’s resting neatly on the rock, the two boys fell beside each other, a neat line of bodies, a brave front facing the world. A hand twitched near Bill’s, the soft pads of fingers dragging across his palms, before they laced together. The heat was near unbearable. If any thoughts of the letter had survived the rain, they couldn’t withstand the touch of Stan’s skin against his own. 

The lake reached out its warm arms to them, and the two boys stepped into the embrace. The water pooled around their feet, parting around the unknown before closing and swallowing, accepting them as they walked until they were waist-deep. Stan’s hand dropped from his, the warmth of his touch replaced with the lake. 

Pale shoulders rolled, lithe muscle straining, before Stan disappeared below the water, little more than ripples marking his presence. Bill followed him, padding against the water, feet sliding in the soft mud and sand. Phantom fingers touched at his thigh, pulling a little before pushing, a great strength suddenly coursing through Stan’s body. As Bill fell back into the water, his laughter was swallowed by the lake.

Stan’s curls fanned around his face below the surface of the water, eyes squeezed shut and hands held out blindly, searching for Bill instinctively. The water, cooling with their bodies, stung Bill’s eyes, but he kept them open, cheeks puffed out to hold in his laughter at the blind angel. 

His hands found Stan’s shoulders, pulling him deeper into the water. The curly-haired boy fought the embrace, hands pressing against Bill’s chest, shoulders, face, before the two of them were shuttling upwards, breaching the lake. In between desperate attempts at sucking in air, their laughter was louder than the rain, louder than the world.

“You play dirty, Uris,” Bill accused, watching the way Stan’s body rose and fell with each breath. His eyes were filled with plotting, darting around and through Bill. Tongue peeked out, caught between his teeth to stop his panting breaths. His hands dropped beneath the water, palms fanning and burying themselves, but Bill was quicker. 

With a heaving shout, water was gathered in his palms, leaping into the air and splashing down on Stan. One arm was lifted to protect himself from the attack, his other half-way through a retaliation. Not even a second passed before water was flying down on Bill. Under the cover of water, half-blocked by Stan’s protective arm, Bill charged forward. His hands caught Stan’s shoulders. Time seemed to slow, and he caught the look on his victim’s face; lips parted as he assessed the deception, loose curls stuck across his cheeks and forehead, eyes widening and narrowing. 

“Wait,” Stan began, but the words dissolved in the water. 

The two danced beneath the surface of the water, a struggle of hands and feet, attuned to the beat of the rain. A strip of sunshine sliced through the lake, tinted blue and green as it splintered in the water, framing the twin grins that slipped over their features. 

Fingers spread over Bill’s shoulder, tensing as Stan used the leverage to push himself above the water, gulping in the air. Bill’s hand wrapped loose around his wrist, and he was engulfed once more, eyes clenched shut and nose scrunched as he braved the water. They tugged each other deeper, feet touching the floor.

The mud was soft as it stained their skin, washed away nearly as soon as it splotched against them. Bill’s feet found purchase, settling into the mud, but Stan’s kick out, trying to propel himself upwards. Mud sprayed around them, a stone scraping over Bill’s leg, an assault that finally caused him to let go of Stan. The other squirmed to the top of the lake, natural grace bleeding away, a victorious scream sounding to Bill’s muffled ears. He floated up after, met with black clouds and streaks of sunshine and Stan’s grin. 

“It almost feels like summer again,” Stan said, hands lifting to straighten out his hair, pushing the curls back from his forehead. They relented, merging with the rest of his hair, before drooping back into place. With a feather-light touch, Stan carved shapes into the lake, the water trembling and shivering beneath his fingertips. Bill could understand how it felt. 

“It would have been a crappy summer if it was just us,” Bill laughed, but the words hung between them, a flicker of meaning that neither understood resting in their pause. Bill wasn’t sure they’d ever understand it; Stan wasn’t sure he ever wanted to.

“Can I tell you something, Bill?” There was something adult in the clean, thin lines of Stan’s face. There was the death of childhood held in his shoulders. The sun had burned, and the rain had cleansed, and Stan felt himself trapped in a brutal change. 

“Of course,” Bill affirmed. Dread was hot in his chest, and he thought he knew what Stan was going to say before he began.

“I don’t think we’re all going to be together again. Not like it was before. I don’t think we’re meant to...last.” Dark clouds hung in Stan’s gaze as it turned toward the lake, watching his hands collect water, cupping it between his curved palms, and watching it escape through his fingers. The summer had blurred the lines between them, one heart emerging out of seven broken people, but they were deep and defined now. Everything was unreadable. 

They felt lonely, even together. There was no power left.

“Don’t say that, Stan. Of course we’re all meant to be together. We’re best friends,” Bill assured, dismissing the harsh clenching in his chest. Stan lifted his head to offer him a smile, but it was neither summer or winter, and the water was still leaking from between his fingers. “Besides, who are we, if not fate-defiers?”

“Hopefully something with a cooler name than fate-defiers,” Stan snorted, shaking his head a little. Water droplets slid from behind his ears, a smooth line of them curving down his neck and into the dip of his shoulders. A look was passed between them, daring each other to continue the conversation, but the words tasted too heavy in their mouths.

Stan sunk below the water. 

Narrowing his eyes, Bill tried to find him below the surface of the lake. It shivered under the onslaught of rain, every glimpse of Stan’s figure blurred, shattering below the murky water. He caught a glance of an open eye, unblinking, jagged by the intercut of rain and sunshine and the dirt that had been kicked free. Fingers pressed fleetingly against his ankle, and then Stan was too deep into the lake for him to see. 

Bill sunk into the water with him. With his eyes closed, the two boys shed the clinging adulthood that would become them too soon, a game of make-believe found in the comfort of the water. They were voiceless mermaids, rainbow-spotted fish, divers exploring the unknown. They were children. 

Their bodies found each other every so often. His foot caught Stan’s arm, the brush of fingertips warning him whenever he came too close, Stan’s ankle jostling against his waist when Bill didn’t move fast enough. Mostly, they swam alone.

Rising to the surface, Bill breathed in the late night air, the warm sun turning to bitter frost. The night had darkened from a promising grey to a clouded black, the indents of stars outlining the sky. Stan rose a few seconds after him, head tilted to the sky. He sighed at the sight, cheek dipping slightly as he bit the inside of his cheek. With only the sound of each other’s breathing, still searching for air, and the fumble of water around them, the two made their way to shore. 

“Your parents are going to kill you when they see the state of your clothes, Bill.” As Stan emerged from the water, his fins and tail turning into human limbs, he gestured to the crumpled pile that had been left close to the water. Dirt and sand had stuck to it, every item shaded black from the rain. He picked up his shirt, and his hand was weighed down by it. 

“I’ll be fine,” Bill assured. The implication that they wouldn’t care kept Stan quiet as he shuffled into his clothes, wet from the rain, but kept safe from mud. His hands tried to wring out his shirt a few times, but it wrinkled the fabric, so he had to stop. With far less finesse, Bill shrugged on his own clothes, bouncing from foot to foot as he pulled on his jeans. 

“Your coat…” Stan murmured, glancing over his shoulder after the sounds of Bill’s struggle had stopped. The water had tightened it around his shoulders, a constricting vice that squeezed around his chest. He escaped from it when the pressure became too much, holding it out towards Stan.

“You can have it. I think it might at least fit you.” Even though it had obtained the most damage from the landscape, Stan held it carefully in his hands, bringing it to his chest. Mud smeared over his shirt. Stan didn’t seem to care. 

“It’s getting dark,” Stan said, moving to sit on the rocks that had been home to his clothes. His back was shock-straight, shoulders stern lines as he blanketed his legs with the coat. “I think I’m going to stay here for a little while.” A raindrop landed on the boy’s brow, making him flinch, but he otherwise remained still and composed. 

“Do you want me to stay with you...?” Bill asked, but Stan was already shaking his head before he had finished. A glance was spared towards the ensemble tucked away below the umbrella, the small safe haven that had been abandoned in favour of the wilds. Bill was going to offer to clear it up for him, but Stan shrugged before he could even speak. “I’ll be going, then.” 

As he walked from the Barrens, he was certain he could feel Stan’s eyes following him. Every time he glanced over his shoulder, Stan was staring intently into the lake, a stern debate creasing the lines of his face. 

He had the look of a convicted man. 

The rain had slowed to a trickle when he opened the door to his house. His shoes stuck to his feet as he toed them off, mud and water tightening them, abandoned by the doorway. The water from them began to pool around, wetting the small rug that had been left by the door. Bill’s hands reached to pull off his coat, confusion blurring in his mind when he realised he no longer had it before his memory caught up with him. His socks left wet footprint marks as he trailed to his room. 

The night had left him drained and distant, his mind felt fuzzy with the need for sleep. As he opened his door, a squeak disturbed the silent house, loud and shrill as it screamed for attention. He waited for some other movement, his mother coming to question him about being out so late, his father’s stern voice beckoning his name, but everyone was too tired to keep up the facade of a happy family. 

He stepped into his room, placing one foot on top of the other to lazily roll off his sock, leaving it by his door. His other foot was cocked back, hands reaching behind him to fight it off. His hip knocked against the desk, sending a flurry of pens rolling to the ground. 

As he picked them up, he noticed an envelope resting on his desk.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was listening to 'heroes' by david bowie while i was writing this and i tried to capture that Feeling


	4. summer sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh there's some narrative bending here BUT i love my girls and will put them in my story

A nucleus of girls had formed beneath the bleachers, congregating around Beverly as if in holy worship. She sat at the head of the small group, lounging on the only seat that had been dragged there by some precocious seniors. The three others sat lower, spread over a stray mat. It could have been a dark blue some time in the past, but it had since turned into a dull grey. All eyes were turned towards Beverly as the girl wielded a cigarette, the angry orange glow breaking apart the darkness. 

Beverly, who wasn’t used to having so much positive attention on her, especially when that attention was coming from a gaggle of girls, luxuriated in the way their wide eyes fixed upon her. She hadn’t thought she’d like attention so much until she had it. It was a pleasant warmth. She took another expert drag of the cigarette, lips forming a ‘o’ to blow out donuts, earning a chorus of coos and giggles. Audra’s elbow dug into Patty’s side, bony finger reaching to point at the airborne circles as if the latter’s eyes weren’t already fixed on them. Middle class girls were rather easy to entertain. 

“How do you get your cigarettes?” The enchanted silence, in which Beverly acted as a witch brewing out potions with her lips, crafting smoke from fire and air in a concoction that held their attention far better than any chemistry class, was broken by a watery voice. While the other three girls were growing into odd angles and long limbs, Betty remained a feeble thing, smaller than her counterparts by more than a few inches. The illusion of smallness was made worse by straight black hair, so dark that it made her skin look impossibly pale, as if a ray of sunshine could be the end of her. 

“I usually hang around a store front with Richie until someone comes along to buy them for me. It doesn’t take too long.” The act of rebellion brought more frenzied, incomprehensible noises from Patty and Audra. Betty sat in silence, her pale lips parted as she imagined the cunning and determination that must exist within Beverly to ask strangers to buy her stuff. It was a daily thing for Beverly, who saw little danger or bravery in it, but the other girls treated it with amazement. 

Leaning forward, Beverly rested a hand against Betty’s shoulder. The girl could barely believe that such a deity would touch her, though it only made sense since she was the closest to Beverly’s perch. “Would you like me to show you how to smoke?” she asked, lifting the cigarette a little closer to Betty. The gleeful whispers of Audra and Patty fell silent, glancing between the lit end of the cigarette, and the ghostly pallor of Betty’s face. Quickly, she shook her head.

“Ah, no, I don’t think….I don’t think so.” She feared that the smoke would embed itself into her skin, and that her parents would banish her to eternally being homeschooled if her lips so much as touched the end of the cigarette. Or, perhaps, the cigarette would only be an initiation into a life of debauchery. Sacrificing herself to it would be like laying upon an altar of bad choices that would define the rest of her life. Beverly squeezed lightly at her shoulder, the assurance that she didn’t have to do anything she was uncomfortable with, but the soft touch was enough to convince Betty that she should do it. Damn the consequences.

Her decision, however, was too late; Audra was already shuffling closer. “Could I try, Beverly?” 

“Of course,” Beverly agreed, sliding from her chair so she was kneeling on the mat. Audra was a little taller than Beverly, even sat while the other knelt, but Audra was sparrow-boned. She had the posture of a flighty bird, loose and long, while Beverly swallowed the space whole, a presence that stretched wider than any of the other girls had experienced. As Beverly explained the process to Audra, Patty and Betty slid closer together. The girls shared a quiet look, one that meant both nothing and everything, a look meant for nothing else but support, before focusing on Beverly’s words.

“Got it?” Beverly finished, as Audra rolled back her fine shoulders, gearing up to the main event. “Be careful,” she warned, voice touched with a motherly hum.

Audra took the cigarette between her lips, and promptly forgot all the advice that Beverly had given her. She inhaled, before breaking away, a splutter of coughs racking her body. Betty leaned forward to pat at Audra’s back, and Beverly’s hand soon joined in, the two girls’ knuckles occasionally brushing together as they worked to comfort Audra. A gasp had to be muffled from Betty each time it happened. 

“It’s alright, you were just a little too eager. Go slower next time, and you’ll get it.” The lack of malice from Beverly, where she had the power to be cruel, was enough to encourage Audra to try again. Carefully, she took a drag of the cigarette, and huffed a cloud of weak smoke into the air between them. The grey fanned across Beverly’s face, leaving her as a vague shape surrounded by choppy red hair. “That’s it. Soon you’ll be my partner in crime, waiting outside of stores with me.”

As the smoke cleared, it revealed the bright smile that stretched over Beverly’s features. Audra’s mirrored hers. Imbued with the confidence of a peer’s support, she took another drag of the cigarette. It had a bitter, strangulating taste to it. It burnt her tongue and irritated her nostrils, as if her insides had been sparked with fire, and she muffled the urge to choke at the taste. However unpleasant she found the activity, she couldn’t resist the pull of amazement that lined Betty and Patty’s faces. 

“Do you want to try, Patty?” Beverly asked, taking the cigarette from Audra. She wasn’t as tiny as Betty, but she held the same worried energy that made her appear infinitely smaller. Her shoulders were wide and stocky, and she sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, a perfect posture that matched the strict way she spoke. All that Beverly had known about her before their covert meeting beneath the bleachers was that she was Jewish; she wondered what singular fact Patty had retained about her. 

At the question, Patty’s head tilted to the side, as if she was debating her options. She lacked both the anxiety that had caused Betty to say no, and the confidence to leap forward as Audra had. 

“Come on, Patty, it’s fun,” Audra prompted. Her voice was rough from the cigarette, giving it the croaky quality of the old-timey jazz singers that Patty’s mom danced around the kitchen to. As Betty watched, secretly hoping that she wouldn’t be the only one to forgo the smoking, she lifted her fingers to bite at her fingernails, ripping the edge of one loose. The fidgeting drew Beverly’s gaze, smile in place but brow wrinkled, and Betty was quick to draw her hand away. She didn’t know why, she wasn’t ashamed of the habit, but perhaps she was simply worried that Beverly would find it unappealing. She kept her eyes solely on Patty.

“Oh. Well.” Whatever reply that Patty was going to give, to which Audra would argue it was an inevitable yes and yet Betty would claim it would be a soft no, was lost to the sound of approaching footsteps. Silence reigned. None of the girls made eye contact. Beverly snubbed the cigarette out against the ground, before throwing it out of sight, hoping that the dull tendril of smoke that curled lazily in the air wouldn’t be their downfall. The footsteps grew louder, chatter fading in and out, all the girls straining to figure out the owners of the voices.

The mystery wasn’t kept for long when Stan and Bill appeared in the opening that led beneath the bleachers. Lifting his hand, Stan offered a small wave that stopped mid-air as he took in three unfamiliar bodies. Both boys tried to assess the situation, but they drew a blank, because Beverly only hung around with them, not other people, especially not other girls. It was as foreign as Ben becoming friends with Belch. 

“Are you coming to sit with us? If you stand out there, you’re just going to draw attention,” Audra spoke. Through breaking the silence, she levelled herself with authority, though it was only the facade of such. Her voice trembled a little as she spoke, still shaken from the threat of being caught. Still, the words caused the boys to move forward, sitting on either side of Beverly. The three other girls shuffled back, leaving them far too much room, but no one commented on it. Everyone viewed each other as equally strange.

“Where’s the gang?” Beverly asked, pulling another cigarette from her pocket. The danger had not warned her against doing it again. Lessons were not made out of smoke and mirrors, and Beverly was not the type to learn so easily. Betty drew in a breath as the cigarette was lit. She hated the scent that spread through the air, but did not think it right to comment on it, if all the other girls were fine with it. Audra and Patty felt the same.

“They found a lunch table inside that was hidden enough to be somewhat tolerable. We’re out here because Bill has baseball tryouts. It was the only time that the coach could fit him in.” Stan was no doubt addressing the gathered crowd, still a perplexing sight to two boys who had never seen Beverly talk to anyone who wasn’t part of their group, but he kept his eyes trained on Bill. If anyone were to comment on it, he would argue that it was a defence mechanism developed by the losers in the presence of strangers, to focus on their leader and hoped that he guided them; Beverly’s eyes remained vaguely on the girls, bouncing from one to the other with a fond smile. 

“You’re trying out for baseball? I heard that this year’s team is pretty good so far. The nationals kind of good.” As she spoke, Audra leaned her chin into the palm of her hand, glancing from Bill to Stan as if she were sizing them up. It was a trick she had been taught by her sister to look more confident, when really she felt outside of the loop. When Bill and Stan talked, when any of the losers talked, it was for no one else outside of their friendship group. They were aware of the existence of the three other girls, but just as they were aware of death; it didn’t often cross their minds.

“Oh, Bill’s really good. Stan, too, but I haven’t seen him play since we were little.” With Beverly speaking, all the attention trained on her, Bill and Stan took their seats on the ground, forming the line of girls into a haphazard circle. “I hadn’t realised any of us were signing up for clubs, though.”

“I think it’s only me, actually. I couldn’t imagine any of the others being interested in spending more time at school.” The place, after all, offered them no sanctuary. There was no protection within the walls, the prying eyes of teachers often strayed when the situation became too dire. Still, Bill held hope that middle school and high school were different entities, and that he would find safety one day. “Uh, are you guys signing up for anything?” 

“I know that Patty has her eyes on the mathletes,” Audra replied, reaching out a hand to squeeze lightly at Patty’s thigh. The other girl let out a soft noise at the mention of her name, as if she wasn’t aware of her own existence before it was spoken. She lifted a hand to her lips, biting away at a jagged nail as she nodded slightly in confirmation.

“Apparently attendance was really low this year, so they’re branching out to freshman, not just juniors. I thought - it might look good on a college application.” Patty kept her eyes down, admiring the neat lines of Audra’s fingernails, clipped to precision and painted a deep red. It matched her hair. 

“She’s being modest,” Audra said, shaking her head along with her words as if she deplored the very idea of modesty. Shoulders curving forward, Patty hid her blush behind her swaying curls, hands landing over Audra’s to telepathically communicate that really, Patty didn’t want any attention from these strangers, she didn’t need to try to impress them. If Audra had glanced over at her flushed friend, she would have read those signals easily. Instead, her eyes stayed on Bill and Stan, only leaving them to watch Beverly at intervals. “She’s really talented at math. I already know she’s going to be one of the best in our year.” 

And, feeling as if some competition had been started, Bill had to speak up.”Stan’s good at math, too. He should join the mathletes.” 

Two brows knitted together as they watched Bill, levelling a small half-shrug towards the group. “I’m Jewish,” he said, voice dry. No one laughed, but Patty finally found the strength to look in her embarrassment upon the group, rather than focusing on the touch of her fingers against Audra’s hands.

“Me, too. That explains things, doesn’t it?” The two shared a small smile, while Audra and Bill looked from one to the other with nervous expectations. They had found a common ground, which meant Audra and Bill had lost their grounding entirely.

“What Temple do you go to?” 

“Out of town. Like Derry would have a Temple. We don’t even have a mall.” 

“Or any place that actually does hair right. I swear, I walk around half the time looking like a primed poodle. You’d think they’d capitalise on the one market they’re missing, instead of opening another fly fishing store.” Cool and composed, Audra’s voice wouldn’t betray the sudden out-of-place feeling she was suffering from. Instead, she let the conversation settle back around her, noticing that Stan and Patty’s eyes had fallen back on her without acknowledging it. “But, really, Stan. I’m sure that Patty would like not being the only freshman on that stuffy team.” 

“It would be nice to have someone I know on the team,” Patty spoke, more timid now she had been cut off. Not that Patty would even say she really knew Stan, he was nothing more than a name to her - and the new school year had brought lots of new names for her to remember, most of them forgotten almost as soon as they were spoken to her, so he would surely dissolve into the sea of people she had met once he left. Still, having another freshman around would at least make things easier. The seniors didn’t seem too fond of anyone younger than them. 

“I’ll look into it,” Stan said. He never promised anything unless he was more than a hundred percent sure he could follow through. Not that joining the mathletes would exactly help his reputation. He had no idea what his reputation was exactly, apart from the fond moniker of the ‘Jew’ kid that even his friends could perpetrate, but he know that it couldn’t be a positive one; loser might have been a single word used to define themselves, but it was a title that meant much more in the high school hierarchy. 

Patty took his answer as a no, as maybes had always been for her, and decided not to bring it up again. Beverly and Bill hadn’t finished on the subject quite yet. 

“You should definitely try out,” Bill urged, nudging at Stan’s hip. The other stumbled back from his perch on his knees, batting away Bill’s arm with a scrunched brow. “Is that what it’s called in mathletes? ‘Trying out?’ Or is that just a sports thing?” 

“Oh, please, sound more like a jock, Bill,” Beverly laughed. The noise was booming and bright, nothing delicate or well-trained about it. It filled the room with its jovial delight, the welcome rise and fall of it summoning little titters from her chorus of girls. Stan spared a smile, and Bill brightened it with a grin. “But, really, Stan, it’d be nice for us all to join clubs, wouldn’t it? We’re always so - uninvolved.” 

Stan would have liked to say that their lives had made it hard to be involved in anything, but there were strangers lurking around. “Does that mean that you’re interested in a club, Beverly?” Stan asked, voice cool, the antithesis to what he felt. There was a splintering within them, a decay surrounding their friendship as each of them broke away into the groups they were destined for, not the group they had made. Beverly wouldn’t be a loser forever. Bill wouldn’t be a loser forever.

Stan would - join the mathletes. 

“Not exactly a club,” Beverly said after a beat, trying to decide the best way to approach the notion to Stan and Bill. Audra, feeling compelled once more into a narrative that had been taken over by the losers, perked up at the comment. It was a physical sensation that took over her whole body, starting with the lifting of her shoulders and ending with her drawing her hand away from Patty, and clasping them together neatly into a soft clap.

“Beverly must be talking about the party.” The way Audra said the party, her lips slowing down to enunciate the intangible excitement it held, made it feel like a warning. Stan and Bill exchanged a glance. Betty sat quietly, nervous eyes dancing from one person to another. She was scared she would be invited, and terrified that she wouldn’t be. “My older sister is throwing a party at my house, a big back-to-school thing, and she said I could invite some friends over. You guys can come, too, with Beverly.” The with Beverly part seemed non-negotiable. 

“And I was thinking that it sounded really fun,” Beverly finished. “I mean, we’ve never really been to a party before. Or even hung out with other kids our age. Or other kids...any age. It just sounded like the right way to start the year.” She wouldn’t admit to it, but the last part of Beverly’s little speech had been stolen from Audra earlier, when the other had convinced her to come to the party in the first place. 

“Betty and Patty are coming, too,” Audra said, in a way of encouragement. Both girls looked startled. Patty knew she would need to run it through her parents a thousand times first, that’s why she hadn’t yet committed, and Betty hadn’t even been asked. No girl had any real plan to go, but a maybe was always a yes to Audra, so she beamed at the boys. “It’ll really be just a small thing.” Unless even half the people she invited showed up.

“We’ll try to come,” Bill said. Stan nodded in agreement. If he spoke, he’d surely say something rude, like how he was certain he wasn’t going to show up to the party, even if it were the only one he was invited to in his entire life. He’d gone fifteen years without being confronted with drunk teenagers, loud music, and the prospect of a fight spurring from all the testosterone. Audra wouldn’t convince him away from that. 

Bill, however, had to admit that the idea had its appeal. It would most likely be their only chance to enjoy something quintessentially adolescent. A needy part of him, that he thought had dulled over two summers, couldn’t wait to ask his parents if he could go. He didn’t know if they’d say no, he didn’t even know if they’d say anything, but the prospect of them responding filled him with a narcissistic glee. “We’ll try to come,” he repeated, after no one spoke. Audra’s perky posture slipped into one of relief, reaching out again to rest her hand against Patty.

“You have to get to practice,” Stan warned, glancing down at the watch wrapped around his wrist. He tapped it twice, even though Bill’s attention had already dropped to the two little hands that kept ticking away. “Come on, it’ll set a good example if you’re a few minutes early. You want to impress the coach,” Stan lectured, in a tight voice that anyone would call reminiscent of his father, if one had met his father. 

Both boys stood up together, Bill brushing away the strands of grass that had stuck to his jeans. Stan, though he had been sitting on a patch of grass just as Bill had, was spotless. It was as if he kept dirt off him purely through the power of will. 

“I’ll see you later, Bev. Enjoy the rest of your lunch, girls,” Bill said, turning his body to address Beverly as an individual, before waving goodbye to the strangers as if they were a mass entity. Stan followed him out of the opening, and the two were quick to disappear. The girls spared no time watching them, quickly relapsing into their previous positions, lighting up a single cigarette and passing it between them. Betty once again tried to build up the courage to at least hold the cigarette. 

“You’re going to watch me during my try-out, right?” Bill asked, his elbow sticking out to knock against Stan’s arm. The other moved gently with the hit, leaning away to the side before swaying back, as if Bill’s arm was nothing more than a light breeze. Something active had sparked in Bill, and he walked a little faster, his fingers twitching by his side. Stan had to take two steps to match one of his strides. 

“I’ve already said I would, Bill,” Stan promised. He stopped the other with a hand rested against his arm, the touch feather-light, but enough to force Bill into standing still. “I’ll be right up there, watching you,” Stan hummed, tilting his body slightly to point at the empty bleachers, at a seat high up enough to give a good show of the pitch. He slapped his hand against Bill’s arm, before pointing towards the pitch. “Go on. I won’t be impressed if you don’t make the team.”

And so Stan took his place on the bleachers, and Bill took to the pitch, and the hive of girls chatted happily in the darkness. No one paid any further attention to the mention of parties all afternoon, and Stan could dismiss the subject in his mind. None of the girls were even in any of his classes that day, so they didn’t play any role in reminding him. Ideas had a way of finding their way to the surface, however, and Bill decided the topic was worth rehashing on their walk home.

Richie had mysteriously disappeared somewhere between lunch and fifth period. Whatever ditch he had found himself in, Beverly had clearly followed. Stan liked the quietness that a lack of Richie brought. Stan missed the noise that having Richie close assured. 

A foot kicked lightly at his heel. There wasn’t enough force to bruise him, it was little more than a tap, but Stan still shot a glare at Bill and stood a little away from him after that. He wouldn’t be subject to anymore dirty tricks. “Villain,” Stan accused, and Bill reached for him again with a laugh, but Stan quick-stepped to the side, and avoided any kind of attack. Realising he had been beat, Bill let his shoulders relax, glancing around the neighbourhood. 

“So, the party.” Stan wished he was being kicked again. “I think it would be cool if we went together. It’ll be an….exercise in adolescence.” 

“You know that just because you try to give something a smart name, it doesn’t actually change what the thing is, right? It’s a party. Which we were invited to by a girl we barely know, just because Beverly brought it up. I don’t think she likes us very much.” 

“Beverly?” 

“Yes, Beverly. That’s exactly who I was talking about.”

“Don’t get snippy,” Bill tutted, but he was wearing a grin. It was a small one, fond and dopey, the kind of smile that would have looked stupid on any face that wasn’t Bill’s. The other had a natural habit of making things work. Or perhaps Stan had just been conditioned from an early age, like Eddie had, to believe that everything Bill did was above and beyond the capabilities of a normal human. Even his smiles were sacred ground, to be worshipped with the same reverence as a sinner about to die would do. 

“Do you really want to go to some exercise in adolescence?” 

“Come on, Stan. Maybe it might actually give us a little bit of reputation. We might be cool after.”

“Ah, reputation. The currency of the high school stock exchange market.”

“You know, just because you give something a smart name,” Bill began, pitching his voice higher as he imitated Stan. It wasn’t faithful to Stan’s true voice, which was a soft-spoken sort of hum that was only ever really high-pitched in his fright, but it still made him crack up. Stan didn’t find it so funny, and aimed his foot at Bill’s knees. Bill side-stepped out of the way. 

“Do you really care about being cooler?” Stan sighed, his shoulders forming a hunch as he lost his posture, slinking forward a little. “Suddenly, you’re on the baseball team, and all you want to do is go out partying. You’re going to tell me that you can’t sit with the losers at lunch next.” His shoulders straightened again, as if his body was remembering itself, realising that his natural position was as an exclamation point rather than a question mark. Neither ever translated into his voice; he was always a bland sentence followed by a period, well put together in a way that seemed unbecoming in a teenager.

Bill never minded it.

“You know I’ll always sit with you guys, even when I’m the coolest guy in the entire school. I’ll probably still be sitting with you when we’re both a hundred and have been married fifty times.” Stan didn’t feel it necessary to comment on how he had changed from ‘you guys’ to ‘you’. He supposed he well-represented the losers. Not as their leader, but he could be a rather good bookkeeper. 

“You’re not going to have been married fifty times, Bill. You’re too much of a catch for that.” 

“Is this your way of proposing to me?” The goofy grin, the one with a dash of dopey and two-parts cute, was shined towards Stan at the suggestion. Stan kept his eyes straight ahead, and didn’t betray himself with a smile. 

“Yes. You caught me. I’ve been madly in love with you since we met, and now I’m finally proposing to you. Will you do me the honours?” Bill wondered how Stan could even begin to use the sickly, dead voice that left him. There was no secret hitch, no bothersome smirk, no twinkle in his eyes. He was anything but alive. It would have almost hurt Bill’s feelings, that Stan could joke so easily about their marriage, if he wasn’t so creeped out by the deadness. The act of becoming un-alive could swallow Stan whole.

“Of course. A summer wedding?”

“We couldn’t have a summer wedding. It’d upset Eddie’s asthma the entire time. We’d be walking down the aisle to the whimsical tune of Eddie’s wheezing.” 

“Then winter.”

“Winter is no good for Beverly. She’ll complain about being cold the entire time.” 

“Right. So, let’s just run away and elope. There will be no friends to ruin our weddings with their complaining, then.”

“Well, since you’ve eliminated the only two seasons, summer and winter, I truly think that is our only option.” Bill would look good in a suit. His shoulders, two wide arches sitting patiently for a chest that was yet to come, were the perfect kind to be framed by black fabric, to be draped in finery like he was distant royalty. If Stan ever referred to Bill as royalty aloud, Bill would say that Stan’s appearance was reminiscent of a fairy prince, soft cheeks that harboured roses in their bouquet, and curls that feathered from his head and danced in the wind. He even watched the birds as if he held secrets with them. “What about our parents?”

Bill knew his parents wouldn’t care, Stan knew his parents would care too much. No one wasted any time answering the question.

“Do you really think we’ll be together forever? All of us?” The question, already posed after water had cleansed them, felt muddier and heavier in the afternoon light. Everything was washed in a dull hue of honey. Honey that had gone bleak and dark with time, amassing a film of grey, that lit the world up only to turn it into smudged browns. Bill turned his head to the side, twisting around a corner as if he could disappear from Stan. Stan followed. 

“How are we going to get married if we’re not together for at least a few more years, Stan?” 

A weak smile was summoned to Stan’s lips. It was barely a reassurance, a joke made from doubt, but Stan supposed it was all he could hope for. The future was written in water. The two walked in silence, friendly and companionable, but still a little too noticeable. Richie would have broke it easier than they could. Bill’s house came into view, and the two boys stopped at the edge of the lawn, Stan twisting his body so they were facing each other. Toe to toe, practically.

“Come to the party,” Bill pleaded. 

“Okay,” Stan responded, but the hesitation stung his lips. It wasn’t really a lie. It wasn’t even a promise. Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, as if his legs suddenly couldn’t bare his weight, Stan chewed on the inside of his cheek and kept his eyes focused on Bill’s nose. It was a rather nice nose, with a smooth dip and a button-edge. Not quite as nice as his eyes, though.

“Alright,” Bill hummed. Stan thought the other was going to hug him for a second, which was an odd and pleasant moment to exist in, but Bill walked away without another word. Stan stood where he was until Bill disappeared into his house, the door opening to beckon him in, before shutting with a light clap. 

No one greeted Bill as he slipped into his house. The house basked in the silence, so quiet that he could hear his mother’s breathing from the kitchen, the slow inhale followed by the long exhale. Rebellious urges rushed through Bill in all their glory, and he stomped upstairs just to force noise through the house, not stopping the clopping of his shoes until he reached his bedroom. He waited by his door, listening to any reprimand that would follow, but nothing happened. His mother’s breathing couldn’t be heard from here. 

Pushing open his bedroom door, Bill let his bag hit the floor hard enough to clatter. He dug out his books, the fronts keep neat and pristine, the pages fraying a little from wear, before placing them on his desk. It took a moment for his eyes to draw to the foreign object resting against his desk, the letter half-opened, with the other half still sealed. As if someone had been almost interested enough, before giving up, and placing the letter safely in his room.

Bill ripped it open, and let the envelope fall to the floor in its tattered pieces.

_ Dear Bill,  _

_ Do not go to Audra’s party.  _


	5. there is a simpler life for us

The barn was a great beast. Everything unpleasant (the smell, the damp, the mess) slid into Bill’s peripherals, overshadowed by its beauty. Hay shone gold under the orange sunlight that broke through the cracks in the roof, a sunrise captured in the wood. Animal noises sounded around the four of them, a cow grunting, a bird chirping itself awake. Beverly’s cheek rested against his shoulder, a yawn escaping her. 

“Mike, do you shoot ‘em?” Richie’s voice was sharp and alert, forcing Bill and Beverly to track him with their eyes. An unwatched Richie was a dangerous Richie. Balanced on the first wrung of a gate, his arm was held out towards a pig, who looked more than mildly agitated about being disturbed by the loudmouth. “Get me a shotgun and let me at ‘em.” Bill thought that Richie might have been attempting a Southern accent, but it was mangled, too distinctly Richie-like to be anything else. 

“Leave it alone, Richie,” Mike huffed, hands hooking under Richie’s armpits to tug him down. There was a moment where he was in the air, supported only by Mike’s weight, and then the backs of his feet hit the ground. Mike let go of him just in time for the other to trip over himself. 

Richie’s head snapped over his shoulder, eyes growing wide and lips forming an ‘o’ as he stared at the mirth-ridden faces of his two friends. “Did you see what that monster did to me?” Richie gasped, a hand on his forehead as he collapsed further onto the floor. Mike shrugged. 

“Oh, are you okay?” Beverly, hand over her heart, stepped forward. Richie held out a hand towards her, but she carefully side-stepped him, and wrapped her arm around Mike’s shoulders. Bill couldn’t help the chuckle that rose in his chest. 

“I think I’ll survive, but barely,” Mike said, a pleasant laugh on his lips. He held out his hand for Richie, who made a show of getting up on his own, brushing hay and dirt from his clothes. As if they weren’t stained enough before. 

“Well, what do you need us to do, Mike?” Bill’s arms crossed over his chest as he glanced between the three of them. Stan had been busy helping his father, and Ben had snagged himself a part-time job that left him absent from most of their outings. Eddie had staunchly objected anything that involved a farm. How long had it been since they were all together? 

“My dad needs the attic completely cleared out, all the hay and droppings and trash. There’s some wheelbarrows up there for us to put the waste into,” Mike said, a little bashful at having to ask for the help, even if his friends had volunteered. He was met with two smiling faces, Bill and Beverly taking the duty with ease, and Richie’s loud groan. “It shouldn’t take too long, if all of us do our best.” 

“I thought we were gonna be feeding chickens,” Richie said, throwing his hands in the air. 

“I never said anything about feeding chickens.”

“The chicken-feeding was implied!” To punctuate his words, Richie shook his fist at Mike, feeling thoroughly betrayed and beguiled.

“How do you even imply chicken-feeding?” There was a crease in Mike’s brow as he spoke.

“We’re at a farm. Farms have chickens. You have chickens!” 

“If I show you how to feed the chickens, will you shut up for the rest of the day?” Mike bargained.

“I’ll shut up about how lame cleaning the attic is, but I can never be silenced.” It sounded like a threat. Sparing a glance over at Bill and Beverly, the three of them decided in quick succession that it was better not to have Richie complain the whole day away. Besides, maybe feeding the chickens would tire him out. Or they could peck out his vocal chords. Bill spared a smile at the thought, nodding at Mike. 

With a hand placed on the back of Richie’s neck, like a pup who couldn’t be trusted to make the journey alone, he was guided to the back of the barn. Sharing a glance, Bill and Beverly offered each other a shrug, before disappearing up the stairs to the attic. Bill kept looking over his shoulder to make sure Beverly didn’t fall through them. 

The attic didn’t glow with a halo of light. One bulb hung in the middle of the room, casting a pale circle of light that only spanned a metre, at best. Everything else seemed clouded with darkness. Beverly took a step closer to him, her shoulder brushing against his upper arm. 

“Well,” she hummed, clearing her throat. And then doing it once more, until she worked up the courage to speak again. “I suppose we best get started.” 

“I suppose,” Bill responded. It took wandering in the dark for them to find what they needed; the wheelbarrows, some gloves, one shovel between them. Beverly took it, and her look allowed for no objections. 

They started in the pool of light, for the sake of safety. Back to back, the two chose a space, and began to clear away what covered the floor. Most of it was just dry hay, which was lifted easy enough, but Bill found a brick and some shards of glass as he ventured into the darker parts that made him take care. It took all of five minutes for one wheelbarrow to be full to the brim. 

“My back hurts.”

“I have dirt all over my hands.”

“My hands are sore from gripping this handle.”

“I think I cut my finger on some glass.”

A slight pause. “Okay, you win,” Beverly conceded. They both crowded around his hand as he held it towards the light; the glass had chipped at it enough to leave a white mark, but there wasn’t any blood. Handing over the shovel to him, Beverly took the gloves. Her eyes slid over to the opening in the floor, somewhere in the distance, listening for footsteps or voices. A cow mooed. Nothing moved.

“Can I talk to you about something?” she murmured, voice soft and gentle, a whisper in a place made of silence. 

“Always,” Bill replied, without thinking, but meaning it entirely. Beverly cleared her throat, shoulders straightening, before falling slack. She was building herself up and tearing herself down with every breath. 

“I think Ben has feelings for me.” 

Bill hung his head, gaze following a bug that skittered across the floor. At least it was clean enough to see the wood. There was a time where he had competed for Beverly’s affections, finding a rival in the other boy. He still remembered the warmth of her hand against his cheek, the softness of her lips, the brief moment where they were kids and teenagers and adults all at once. 

“Oh, don’t do that.” There’s a smirk in Beverly’s voice that grew at Bill’s sigh. 

“Things have just changed between us. I mean, we’re friends.”

“You don’t have to explain anything.”

“It could be worse.”

“I never said it was bad.” Beverly was still staring at the opening. 

“It could be Richie.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Your children would be ginger loudmouths. Impossible to ignore.” Bill had to spread his fingers over his lips to stop the way laughter broke inside of him, loud and bright, eyes shining.

“I’ve decided I hate you,” Beverly murmured, affronted and only a little amused.

“Brave decision.” 

“Can you let me talk?” 

“Oh, please, do.”

“Richie wouldn’t ever have a crush on me.” Though she wasn’t quick to share a secret that didn’t belong to her, Beverly had always suspected that the other’s heart had been captured before they had even met. He was taken in all regards but the literal. 

Eyebrows lifted as she spoke, lips pressing into an uncomfortable twist as Bill grimaced. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.” Her brow crumpled, a hand moving to lie flat against her stomach as she was trying to placate the raging seas that bore against her bones. They’d have to be blind, or Richie, to ignore the way Ben puppy-followed her around. 

“If he really loved you, he’d want you to be happy.” 

Beverly’s features pinched. Stepping away from him and into the darkness, she began to pile hay into her hands, dumping it into another wheelbarrow. They’d have to bring more up soon. “Thanks, Bill,” Beverly murmured, halfheartedly.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. Not wrong. Just - rose-coloured.” Bill didn’t say anything, so Beverly continued. “Of course he’ll want me to be happy. But he’ll also want himself to be happy. People can feel more than one thing at once. And I just don’t want to see him hurt or upset because of me.” 

“You don’t have to hurt him,” Bill said. There’s a long pause/ Bill bit his tongue, before sighing. “I mean, wouldn’t being with him be better than being lonely?” 

“I’m not lonely. I’m surrounded by people I love, all the time. People who love me. There’s no loneliness in that.” 

“People can feel different things at once. You can be lonely and not lonely at the same time, for different reasons.” 

Bill thought on how he had a support system holding him up, six shoulders to cry on, and yet a part of him was hollow. There was a scrap of his heart that belonged entirely to his brother, and had been lost with him. Memories of Georgie had already begun to fade. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t remember his little brother, but the memories were flashes, things thought of in relation. It was like he couldn’t isolate the thought of Georgie anymore; he existed as an association. 

He was both full and empty. 

Beverly’s eyes were wide lights in the darkness, another handful of dirt and hay thrown into the wheelbarrow. “Very cute.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you something better.” 

“It’s alright. You did your best.” As they grew, Bill realised all the ways he couldn’t look after his friends. He was only responsible for a small piece of the world. His tribe of young children with stifled innocence were running from his grip, carried away down a river of adulthood, filled with the death-traps of complicated emotions. He longed for the taste of childhood. 

“Can I talk to you about something, actually?” Stepping back into the dim light, Beverly examined a piece of glass, throwing it into the wheelbarrow when she realised that it wasn’t something precious. 

“You know you can always talk to me, Bill. Go on.” 

“It’s a little complicated. I still don’t know what to make of it.”

“I’m sure I can keep up. Tell it slowly.” 

Bill wasn’t even sure that  _ he  _ could keep up. The outing to the farm had drawn his thoughts away from the letters, but his mind kept returning to them in useless turmoil. They were a scrawl that foretold death, a command in each, like he was a child in need of guidance in case he stumbled off the right path. And - what if the letters were not intent on leading him down the right path? Perhaps it was a malignant force that was writing them. 

Maybe, out in a world left unexplored, there were worse things than monsters.

“I think someone’s playing a prank on me.”

“If it’s Richie, I will pants him for you, but I’ll only do it once, so pick wisely.” Bill stored that ammunition away for later use. 

“It’s someone else. Something else.” 

Matching unease stretched wide over their features, both far too well-acquainted with things without names. The something elses of the world. Beverly’s tongue felt so heavy in her mouth that she could choke on it. Bill thought back on a rain-drenched memory that had been worn from use, of him and Stan beneath an umbrella and a sky and a hidden sun and a universe of trauma, and his silent promise to not bother his friends with the letters. Every reason why he had made such a promise was wrapped up with delicate precision in Beverly’s paling features.

“Please, keep talking.” 

“One of them said that Eddie was going to get hurt, and then - he did. And another told me that I shouldn’t go to Audra’s party.” It was on the tip of his tongue, the third fragment of the puzzle that hinted at Stan being hurt, but he couldn’t breathe the words into existence. That, at least, would be his burden. 

“Okay,” Beverly said, voice careful. “And do you have any idea who you think is sending them?”

“I’m going to sound crazy.”

“Tell me.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Really, Bill? After everything?”

“I think it’s me. Me, from the future.” 

Before anything else could be said, the stairs creaked, and then burst into life. Richie sprinted up them as fast as his legs could carry him, followed by a less-than-enthusiastic Mike. “Howdy, y’all,” Richie greeted, tipping an imaginary hat at them. “Just came back from my first rodeo and I gotta say, I have my war wounds.”

“A chicken pecked him.” 

There was soft discontent ravaging Beverly’s features, but Bill turned his gaze to the two approaching boys. Mike was picking feed from Richie’s hair, both oblivious. He wondered how many secret conversations he would never be a part of.

He couldn’t tell them about the letters; even telling Beverly had felt like a misstep. 

“You’ve barely gotten anything done!” Richie complained, hands whipping around the attic. Both of them stepped into the circle of light, four children crowned in a golden hue. “I thought you’d have half the place swept by now. Jeez, were you two making out? Or was Bill giving another boring lecture about morals, and yada yada yada?” 

“Wow,” Beverly and Bill breathed. Tucking a hair behind her ear, Beverly lifted her shoulders and stepped towards Richie. Sensing danger, the boy took a step back, a nervous grin over his lips. “We weren’t going to put in any effort before you re-appeared, Richie. There’s no reason to do work if you’re not going to pull your weight.” 

“Of course,” Richie said. He offered a parody of a bow to Beverly, before waving his hand at Bill. “I happen to be very interested in pulling my weight. In fact, I could do this all by myself, if you all wanted.” 

No one paid him any attention, despite how appealing it would be to call Richie’s bluff. 

The shovel was handed over to Mike. He was more used to the hard work of a farm, and seemed elegant in how he wielded it. Richie was left to wander around the edges of the darkness, a forced accent telling them to hurry up at varying increments, while he put in as little effort as possible. 

Bill and Beverly tried their best, but all they had were their hands, and an exhausted mind from all the secret-revealing. 

They didn’t manage to clear the entire attic. Richie, trying to distract them as his need for attention swallowed him whole, began wandering too close in front of them. As Bill bent down to pick up more hay, Richie very nearly trampled his fingers. In response, Bill threw the wad of hay in Richie’s face. It led to a brief scuffle that Mike poked at with his shovel until they parted. 

“Boys,” Beverly sighed. Mike had to agree. 

She had been working hard, and the muscles in her back ached. Her arms had grown tired and sore, having to rest by her side after each handful of hay had been stuffed away into the wheelbarrows. Bill rolled his shoulder, feeling the burn and stretch, the soreness of his fingertips. Richie would probably feel the same, if he had put in any effort at all. 

A piece of glass was kicked towards Bill by Richie’s careless foot. 

Even Mike, who was used to this kind of work, felt his body lagging behind. The vestiges of summer heat were captured in the attic, stifling and suffocating, enchanting the world around them with dust. 

The four bodies were slumped forward. Richie’s hair was sticking up in places, which wasn’t unusual. 

“My mom was making lemonade this morning, if we want to go see if it’s done.” 

The collective sigh could have rattled the foundation of the barn. 

“You’re a real champ, Mike. A real champ.” An arm was swung over Mike’s shoulder, Richie tugging him closer until their heads met with a dull thump. They hurried ahead, breaking apart only to stumble down the stairs, before reconnecting. Lagging behind them, Beverly’s hand slipped into Bill’s. Her palm was cold, or the touch made Bill run cold, but all the heat around them seemed to dissolve at the touch. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Beverly said. Her eyes were set forward, a frown pulling over her lips. “Just don’t go to Audra’s party.” 

“Audra’s party?” Richie, at the bottom of the stairs, whipped around to watch Beverly and Bill walk single-file down. Unable to hold the boy’s gaze, Bill stared at his feet. It made it easier to navigate the narrow staircase, at least. 

“Audra’s party?” Mike repeated, glancing between everyone. 

“A girl at our school is throwing a party,” Beverly said, with a shrug. As if they were the type of people who were invited to parties. “She wants all of us to come.”

“All of us,” Richie said, with a slight scoff.

“All of us,” Mike echoed, with a slight smile. 

“Yes, all of us. Even those of us that don’t attend the school, I’m sure.” Her hand was pulled away from Bill to rest against Mike’s forearm. Her head found his shoulder, smile slight over her lips. Bill missed the touch of her fingers. “But Bill won’t be going.” 

Thankful that the decision had been made for him, he nodded. 

“What? That’s no fun at all, Bill!” Having only just heard of the party, Richie made the decision that it was a momentous occasion for all of them. Pulling himself away from Mike, he clapped his hands to draw their attention. As if they weren’t already focused on him. “This is probably the only party you’ll be invited to in your entire life. You need to go. We all need to go.” 

“I’m nu-not gonna be lectured on my life choices by you,” Bill said, eyeing Richie like one would an agitated housecat. He wasn’t exactly dangerous, but he could still pounce and show his claws. Richie sniffed. “All of you can go. I just don’t want to be there.” It’s the only excuse he could find on such short notice. Richie squinted at him. 

“Unless you’re too scared to go to a party without Bill,” Beverly cut in, playing Bill’s hero. With a smirk, she brushed past Richie without waiting for an answer. The boy spluttered, eyes darting from Bill to Beverly, before sadly landing on Mike. He offered no help. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’ll be going to get some lemonade.” 

Walking ahead of them, Beverly’s hands rested against the small of her back, the elegant slope of her shoulders looking relaxed and smooth in the sun. Richie raced past her, elbow clashing against hers in his eagerness to get to the lemonade. Bill was sure he had forgotten all about it, until a competition had been proposed. 

Kicking off into a sprint, the four of them made their way from the barn to the house. Bill was leagues ahead of the others, Beverly trailing behind him. Richie would have been first, if he hadn’t managed to trip over himself a couple hundred times. Mike was barely putting in any effort, trailing behind them in a half-jog, half-walk. As Bill’s shoes tapped against the first step of the porch, his arms lifted in celebration, a shout breaking from his lungs. Beverly slid beside him, Richie doubling over to catch his breath. 

“Richie,” Beverly panted, reaching out to fix his glasses. “You look homeless with your hair like that.” 

“Yowza, Bev, you’re a real sweet talker. You still single?” 

Her elbow dug sharply into Richie’s ribs. The boy doubled over again, clutching at himself like he’d been mortally wounded. “Depends. You gonna take me out on a date yet, Richard?” 

“No, thank you. I prefer to have all my ribs in the right place.” Straightening himself out, Richie patted at his chest. Beverly made to aim for him again, but the two broke apart when the front door opened. 

Mike’s mom looked like a warm hug. She settled the tray of lemonades on the porch step, smiling politely at the chorus of ‘thank you’s and the kiss to her cheek that Mike delivered. Richie leaned forward to plant a kiss as well, but Mike batted him away. Straightening out her apron, she pulled Mike close for a hug. He had the decency to not look embarrassed.  Few words were exchanged between them before she disappeared again, and they all dove forward to grab a glass. 

They hung around the porch until the sun lowered, moving with the efficiency of tired cats over each other, Richie’s legs pushed from lap to lap, Beverly’s fingers combing through hair, the fit of Mike and Bill’s shoulders drooping together. With the sun disappearing, the clouds brought rain, a chill running through them.

“The weather’s been insane lately,” Beverly murmured, pulling her legs under the shelter of the porch, a few raindrops already splattered across her skin. 

“My mom calls it the in-between. The seasons haven’t settled yet, they don’t know what they’re doing.” Everyone basked in the wisdom of Mike’s mom, heads tilted in all directions. Bill counted the raindrops until there were too many of them, too fast, to bother keeping track of. 

“We should get going,” Bill said, breaking the thin film of silence. Standing to his feet, he held out his hand for Beverly. She took it. 

“A few more minutes.” Pulling herself to her feet, Beverly kept her gaze fixed on the rain. It poured. There was a pause where everyone held their breath so hard that Bill was sure he could hear the dull thump of Beverly’s heart. Tilting his head up, Bill met Beverly’s eyes, and then the two said their goodbyes to the others. Richie was half-slumped against Mike, legs blooming into the space left by his friends as they departed. 

The night had grown from grey to black when Richie and Mike went inside. 

“Can I sleep over tonight?” Richie asked, the same way he had the past two nights, eyes nervously skittering to the side as he dropped the lemonade glasses into the sink. Being as old as they were, his parents would already be sound asleep, practically dead to the world around them. No one would notice Richie. Not even when he shimmied down the drainpipe in the morning, and knocked on the door with a leaf stuck in his frantic hair. 

“Only if you don’t make a mess.”

“I’m not a dog!” Richie laughed, nerves bleeding from him. He barked at Mike when the other pushed him aside to wash the glasses. 

It wasn’t until they were in Mike’s bedroom that Richie saw it. 

“I’m gonna go brush my teeth,” Mike said, hitting his friend on the back as he left the room. Richie watched him go before walking towards the object of his interest. Peeking out from Mike’s rucksack, the edge of a letter stood tall and proud. It was the most tantalising sight Richie had ever seen. He wouldn’t call himself a snooper, but Mike wasn’t the kind to have -  _ secrets _ . If the letter was even a secret.

Perhaps it was a letter from his grandmother. 

Leaning closer, Richie eyed the letter. It was stuck between two books, as if they were meant to keep it from bending. Richie tugged it free. The envelope was blank, which only made Richie more desperate to know what was inside. It couldn’t have been delivered. His fingers brushed over the deliciously white canvas, the secrets behind practically throbbing. 

A low rumble sounded from behind him, the distorted growl of his name. Spinning round on the balls of his feet, Richie blinked innocently. “Micheal,” he breathed. Mike all but charged him, rushing forward to grab the letter from his hand. “Oh, this? This isn’t what it looks like,” Richie assured, though he was breaking out in laughter. 

Peppermint spit was sprayed against Richie’s cheek as Mike tried to speak around his toothbrush. With a ‘ugh’, the curly-haired boy broke away from Mike to wipe at himself, nose scrunching up. “That’s so gross!” Richie whined, letting Mike snatch the letter and hold it against his chest. 

They stood staring at each other, panting. Mike tucked the letter safely into his pocket, and disappeared back into the bathroom. When he returned, he looked only a tad frustrated, though he pushed too hard at Richie’s chest as he brushed past him. 

“So,” Richie said, still panting too heavily. Geez, he felt like Eddie. “What’s in the letter, huh?” 

“None of your business,” Mike grumbled, the pleasant edge of his voice having vanished. Now they both sounded like Eddie! 

“But what if I told you the fate of the universe depended on me finding out?” Richie considered leaping forward to grasp at the letter, but Mike was stronger, and far more annoyed. 

“What if I told you to shut it?” 

“Touche,” Richie said. 

Undressing together in silence, Richie kept stealing glances at the place where the letter was hidden. As a good friend, he knew better than to pry. As a best friend, he felt that it was his duty to know what was in the letter. 

Both boys laid in bed together in various states of undress. Though Mike fell asleep within minutes, Richie couldn’t, itching to crawl out of bed and pluck the letter from his friend’s discarded jeans. 

* * *

By the time Beverly had made it home, it was dark, inside and out.

She opened the door with her own key. It was only a small taste of freedom, to come and go as she pleased, but it was more than she had ever been allowed - for that, it was the most delicious taste. Shoes and coats were to be taken off in front of the doorway, neatly lined up with the rest of the family’s, a routine that her father hadn’t bothered with. Creeping into the kitchen, she found her aunt at the table, half-dead with sleep. 

“Oh, Elfrida,” her aunt yawned. Standing to her feet, she ran her hands down her apron. “I was just staying awake until you came back, you give me such a fright when you stay out so late. There’s some cold pasta in the fridge, if you get hungry.”

“Thank you,” Beverly hummed, stilling as her aunt leaned down to press a dry kiss to her forehead. The tenseness of her shoulders was muscle memory, remembering the stickiness of her dad’s touch, but - her aunt smelled of flour and butter. Her hands were clean and smooth, her touch light and friendly. “Beverly. My name’s Beverly..”

Her aunt pulled away to blink down at her, before nodding. “Of course, of course. I’m sorry. Your hair...” There’s a note in her aunt’s voice that ping-ponged its way across Beverly’s spine. Fingers smooth down her bright curls. “I suppose I’ll go to bed before I bother you anymore.” She padded out of the kitchen in dreamy silence, disappearing into the gloomy hold of darkness. 

She didn’t bother with the pasta. Her stomach had been in knots since Bill had talked about the letter, and showed no signs of settling. Instead, she grabbed a few apple slices that had been preserved in lemon juice; if she continued to live with her aunt, she didn’t think she’d ever have to bite into a real apple again. The slices were bitter, and left an uncomfortable burn in her mouth, but Beverly still ate enough of them to start feeling sick. A few in her hand, leaving her palm sticky, Beverly made her way into her bedroom.

Well, not her bedroom. Their bedroom.

The door opened silently, permitting a slither of fine light into the room. It was enough to make her cousin stir, twisting to stare at Beverly’s face, cheeks stuffed with apple slices. Her cousin, Olivia, had been relegated to a mattress on the floor while Beverly had her bed. There had been no contempt about this change. Beverly’s history had been told to Olivia in spurts, and she had taken the role of the good cousin, allowing the younger to have and use anything in her room. Most of Beverly’s clothes had been gifts from Olivia. 

She was passively angelic, and looked the part. Even newly awakened, her hair was curled neatly, her cheeks two blooming roses, her eyes a fussy green that seemed to lighten and darken at will. 

Beverly tried her hardest to like her, to love her, but she failed miserably. Liking Olivia seemed to only last for seconds at a time, before Beverly’s skin crawled at her charitable nature, at how giving she was without ever seeking reward. 

“Oh, it’s rather late,” Olivia murmured, leaning forward to glance at the clock. 

“Sorry for waking you,” Beverly said. She wasn’t sure how much she meant it. Her bed, her cousin’s bed, was freshly made, with a corner turned down to welcome Beverly into it. Turning her back to Olivia, Beverly stripped off her clothes; her cousin’s shirt, her own jeans, socks that belonged to her aunt, shoes that had been bought new. 

“It’s no trouble,” Olivia said, voice filled with ambivalent forgiveness. As Beverly sat on the bed, she realised Olivia was sat there as well. “A letter came for you this morning.” A smooth, cream envelope was pressed into Beverly’s hands. It smelled like fresh lilac, but that could have been the imprint of Olivia’s skin. It was utterly unopened, looking as if it had only been handled once or twice with vague disinterest. 

She wished that Olivia had torn it open on arrival, so Beverly could scream at her.

Beverly needed someone to scream at.

“Oh.” Her thoughts, which were distinctly pleasing and abjectly horrifying, stopped dead as she glanced at the letter. “Do you know who delivered?”

“Why, the mailman.” Olivia blinked at her, a blank smile across her pink lips. 

“No. I don’t think so,” Beverly hummed. “Did you see who delivered it? Did it come with the regular post? Did - did anyone see? I don’t want it. Give it back to whoever delivered it.” 

“You’re scaring me,” Olivia gasped, drawing her hand to her chest. Beverly hadn’t realised her fingers were circling her cousin’s wrists until she yanked herself free. “You’re clearly tired.” Inspecting the red ring around her wrist, Olivia averted her gaze from Beverly’s wide eyes. Even after such an outburst, her tone was even and warm, perfectly unfractured. In a worse mood, Beverly would imagine all the ways she could ruin Olivia’s voice.

The thoughts were passing, the ones she had of hurting her cousin. It came with an airy vengeance, a pinpoint of anger flaring inside of her, and then it disappeared. In its wake, embarrassment bloomed. She wouldn’t really hurt Olivia. There wasn’t even anything solid to hate about her cousin, not with her aura of pleasantness that every adult commented on. Since Beverly had been forced into the household, Olivia had made every sacrifice for her dear cousin. Her fingers tightened around the edges of the envelope, watching the paper scrunch up.

“We’re both tired.” With barely a crack in her performance, Olivia faked a yawn and shuffled back onto the mattress on the ground. “I’ll see you in the morning, Beverly. Tell me if you get too cold and you can have my throw.” 

With nothing to be done until morning, unless Beverly subjected herself to reading whatever was in the envelope, she settled. She sunk two inches into the soft comforter, letter held in one hand, finger rubbing circles over it as if she could read the words in such a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> please remember that comments fuel writer's blood and that kudos are sweet as fuck!!!


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